Nothing Sweeter Than Revenge
by Courtney Starr
Summary: Disneyish  Partners travel to Paris for a very specific job, one ordered by the Minister of Justice in secret.  Will the Trouillefous uncover the secret plot against them?  Will a woman returning home finally find peace?
1. Le voyage long à la maison

**Chapter One**

**Le Voyage Long à la Maison**

**(The Long Journey Home) **

* * *

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the characters/items/other stuff from Hunchback of Notre Dame. They belong to Disney and Victor Hugo (I strongly recommend reading the original – Hugo is simply brilliant). I only use them for my own pleasure in writing, but I don't make a dime out of it, so please don't sue. All original characters are my own creation. 

**Author's Note**: This is my first ever Hunchback of Notre Dame fan fiction. The idea is an old one and had started writing this story quite sometime ago. It was not until a few days ago that I discovered the first few chapters of this fan fiction on an old disc. I read through the notes and the already written chapters and became enthralled in writing more. So, here I am, a number of years later, editing a fan fiction that I had completely forgotten about. This first chapter doesn't feature any of the Hunchback of Notre Dame characters, but they will be in the story, starting with the next chapter. And Jeta is pronounced Yetta. Onto the story…

* * *

For as long as she could remember, Jeta Delgado Scarott hated the rain. Not only did the rain make it nearly impossible for her to go out without becoming drenched and ruining all of her possessions, it also made her already hard-to-manage hair a frizzy mane. As she grumbled to herself, shifting her traveling bag to her other shoulder, a deep laugh came from her traveling companion. 

"And what is so funny?"

Jeta looked up at Patrick O'Hara, her partner and close confidante, her eyes narrowed and her lips dangerously thin.

"Oh nothing," Patrick replied, still trying to hide his amusement by covering his mouth with his hand, looking anywhere but at the young woman.

Jeta continued to glare at him before returning her gaze to the path in front of them, not allowing his quiet laughter to bother her further. Instead, she focused her attention on the rain that continued to pelt them in the head and how much she longed for a warm fire. They had been traveling for several weeks now, stopping at every few towns for some rest or food. Their final destination would be Paris, France, where Jeta had heard of a well paying job.

This job, as well as the now smirking Irishman next to her, had been stuck in Jeta's thoughts since she had first heard about it. Yes, it was would pay both her and Patrick well – they might not even have to work for a few months – but there had been others that were just as well paying and much closer in distance. However, Jeta knew she could not pass up this wonderful opportunity, regardless of how unwise Patrick thought it was.

Patrick, on the other hand, was slightly more concerned about the nature of this job as it revolved around Jeta's own people – gypsies, as they are called by outsiders – and her birthplace of Paris. She had not returned to either for the past decade, choosing instead to live in exile amongst some of the most scandalous people. When she had first brought up going to France for the job, Patrick was somewhat startled, his emotions soon switching over to confusion. He had agreed to come with her, being the only person that she truly trusted and relied on.

Looking over at Jeta, Patrick began to study the girl, who had now evolved into a young woman, he had raise for the past ten years. She was certainly much taller than she had been, now standing at a proud five foot five, but then she had only been seven when he had found her and was still not tall but anyone's count. Her body had certainly matured as well, where she was once thin to the point of looking sickly, her body was now thicker, slightly curvy, showing off her well-sculpted muscles and small breasts. The thick, coarse, wavy black hair she had as a child – worn at chin length and boyish – was now much longer, yet still possessed the same qualities; she usually wore it down in full waves, but today she had knotted it into a tight braid to keep it out of her face as they traveled. Allowing his eyes to continue to study his travel partner, they returned to her face – oval-shaped with a small nose, soft pale lips, and – his favorite feature – almond-shaped dark hazel-green eyes. Jeta had certainly grown from the small, scrawny girl Patrick had found in an alley and he was proud to have her as his adopted daughter.

While Patrick continued to study Jeta, his thoughts began to wander back to the journey at hand. He had been to France a few times before, but he never stayed long. Patrick was in possession of that flaming Irish physique that made those in the Far East, where they had just come from, jealous. Unfortunately, for him, the French did not want nor approve of his appearance. Patrick stood at six foot three with broad shoulders and hard-earned muscles. Adding to this image of a giant was his thin, brilliant red hair, matched in shade with his grizzly beard – trimmed short and always kept neat, piercing cyan eyes, and pale skin speckled with freckles. Whenever he had entered any city in France, people scattered before him, their eyes openly staring, whispers following his every movement. On more than one occasion, he had encountered trouble with the law. Therefore, Patrick had taken to avoiding the country unless there was an amazing deal to be struck.

"Athair?"

Patrick looked up at the sound of Jeta's voice, startled out of his musings.

"Are you done staring at me now?"

Her one eyebrow was quirked, showing her amusement, yet her thin lips and slight crinkling of her eyes told him that she was starting to get annoyed at his treatment. Patrick, although one to not back down or show his emotions, was slightly embarrassed at being caught staring, something he tended to hate as people had so often stared at him. Her lips curved into a smile within a few seconds, however, silently telling him that she was not angry and he was clearly forgiven.

"Iníon, you scared me."

Jeta softly chuckled. "Perhaps you shouldn't get lost in your thoughts."

"Bite your tongue."

Patrick glared half-heartedly at Jeta, not really offended by her quick comment, but she was still his little girl, his daughter, in his eyes and would not take lip from anyone. Jeta, in response, stuck out her tongue and then promptly bit down slightly on it, a twinkle in her eye, causing the Irishman to laugh. The rest of their trip passed uneventful until they arrived in Paris, where trouble sprang up almost immediately.

Paris was well known for its lack of polite treatment toward the gypsies, but Patrick and Jeta had been hoping to pass into the city without too much trouble, especially since they had all the proper papers in order. It was with much dismay that their first true bump in the road occurred at the gates into the city, where the guards stopped them.

"Well, what do we have here? A gypsy wench trying to sneak in with this upstanding citizen."

A guard had stepped in front of Jeta and Patrick, blocking their way, while two more fell behind the couple. The two guards in the back began to whisper amongst themselves, eyeing Jeta up and down, lust and disgust apparent in their eyes, while the other began to interrogate Jeta.

"And where do you think you're going?"

Jeta went to open her mouth, an insult almost passing from her lips, when Patrick placed a hand on her shoulder. Looking up at him, Patrick passed her a quick shake of his head, signaling to her that he would take care of any problems with the guards.

"Actually, the young lady is with me."

The guard seemed a bit shocked at this and his mouth hung up for three very long seconds, before he snapped it closed and glared at the Irishman, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment.

"We'll be needing to see her papers…" Patrick began searching through his bag while Jeta casually placed the papers into his other hand, having been holding onto them herself. "…and an explanation of who she is and her purpose in Paris."

Patrick handed over two envelopes, both of them thick due to the several pieces of paper in them. The guard passed them back to a man on his left and crossed his arms, waiting for Patrick's answer.

"She is my servant. Her purpose is to, as all servants do, serve me. I, myself, am here on business."

Jeta quickly hid her look of anger, not wanting to give away that she was no servant, but Patrick had seen the emotion flash through her eyes. He could only imagine the lecture he would receive when they reached their safe house. While Jeta was always one to take up a disguise in order to reach a goal, her intense dislike of being viewed as subservient or of lower status generally had her avoiding such situations.

"A servant?" The guard chuckled, pointing at Jeta as if the others had not seen her. His eyes looking her up and down, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, the lust very apparent in his eyes; Jeta wanted nothing more to show the man that she was not a person to be messed with, but instead, playing up her servant role, averted her eyes to the ground. "She looks like a gypsy and everyone knows that they can't be trusted."

Patrick had watched this all, his one hand playing with the knife hidden in his belt. How he wanted to slit their throats for looking at Jeta, his partner, his daughter, the way they were. It was indecent. "Oh, my dear friend, she is no gypsy." The guard looked at the Irishman, taking his eyes off of Jeta, a look of disbelief on his face. "No, she is Spanish you see. They are so easy to confuse. What, with both of them in possession of dark skin and features, it's nearly impossible without getting to know the person first. Ask her a question if you don't believe me. But, be warned – while she understands French, she can only respond in Spanish."

Scratching his chin for a moment, the guard began to think. Not really wanting to waste time, as he could be out catching more gypsies and improving his reputation, he asked her the first thing that came to mind.

"What is your purpose here in France?"

Jeta pretended to ponder the question for a moment, trying to play out her role as a lowly, unintelligent servant as well as possible.

"Un trabajo. Aunque, yo contentamente le mataría para diversión, usted repugnando el pedazo de cerdo, yo tengo los asuntos más importantes en mano." Jeta stated this question, acting as if her reply was well-mannered and describing exactly what her "master" had said. Inside, she laughed, knowing full well that the guard would not understand a lick of what she had just said. Patrick's eyebrows shot up into his receding hairline and he almost turned around to smack her upside the head as her little speech.

"Well, what did she say?"

Patrick, as frustrated as he was at Jeta's hijinks, was not surprised at the guard's inability to understand his parther. It was getting harder not to laugh at the unintelligent Frenchman and Jeta found that the only way to not burst out in giggles was to dig her nails into the palm of her closed hand. Patrick watched her from the corner of his eye, amusement sparkling in their blue depths.

"That she does not know the exact reason for her coming to France besides that me, her master, has told her to come."

The guard went back to scratching his chin, pretending as if he had known that that was what Jeta had said all along. He still did not believe the red-headed man, but not being able to find a way to prove that the girl was indeed a gypsy, he let the pair past. As they entered the city, he motioned to the other two guards to make sure that word got around to watch for them; he was not a genius, but even he could tell that something was very wrong.

Once out of sight of the group of guards and safely into the city, Jeta promptly punched Patrick in the arm, a sour expression on her face. Patrick just rubbed the spot, faking pain, complete with moans of anguish.

"What did you do that for?"

"A servant?!"

Jeta was livid. She had always been a bit headstrong and thrived on her independence, so being a servant, even acting as one, would cause her short temper to flare up. Patrick had been well aware that eventually she would have provoked an argument between them, her stubbornness always a point of contention; for now, simply being angry at having to be called a servant was enough to set her off. Patrick did not answer, knowing it was the only way to get into Paris without being thrown into the Palace of Justice; Jeta knew this as well, but was, at the moment, too hungry and tired to see reason, so she continued to glare at Patrick until he did respond.

"It was the only way to get into Paris, you know that Jeta. So stop making a fuss about it."

"I will not! Why couldn't you be the servant?"

"Because, iníon, you are Romani." Patrick raised a hand to stop her as Jeta had opened her mouth to retort. "Perhaps you could have played it off with your Spanish heritage, but really now, do you think he would have allowed you to pass? And if you can't think of it in terms of race, think of it in terms of sex. I was, as I'm sure you were, well aware of the other two guards who were openly leering at you, gypsy or not."

Jeta stuck out her lip and crossed her arms, not wanting to admit he was right. This type of behavior was not something she displayed in public but as it was only Patrick that was in the vicinity, having recently turned down a back alley, she did not mind being a bit of a brat. She did not speak for the rest of the way to their new home, occasionally glaring at Patrick before returning her eyes to the road. Sometimes Patrick forgot how young she still was and right now, her age was showing; however, bringing up that would only cause another fight so he kept his mouth shut, allowing Jeta to calm down.

It was nearing dusk when the pair finally arrived at the safe house – a rickety, dark, one-story building with dirty, cracked windows and a dilapidated roof. The first floor consisted of a kitchen, dining area, sitting room, small half-bath, and tiny bedroom. Unbeknownst to the few people who passed by the house, there was also a very extensive basement. This basement is where many of the occupants of the house lived. There was a single, circular staircase that led to the two levels of the basement – the first being the bedrooms and bathrooms and the second being the training area. Unfortunately, none could enter the house unless they knew the password.

Patrick and Jeta stopped in front of the house, allowing their eyes to wander the dank, grey surface of the building, before both moved to step up to the front door, bumping into each other on the way. Jeta twisted her head sharply, sending a glare at Patrick who put his hands up in defeat, allowing her to knock twice fast and once hard on the door.

For a few seconds, nothing happened, but then the sound of wood scraping on wood reached their ears and a small rectangular opening appeared in front of them. Two bloodshot eyes peered at them, glancing from Jeta to Patrick, studying both of them.

"Parolă?"

"Dragostea din tei."

The two eyes squinted at Jeta, seeming to decide if the phrase she had said was correct or not. With a grunt and a slam of the slab, the front door creaked open, allowing the two weary travelers to finally settle down and rest their feet.

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**Author's Note**: This story is going to have snips of different languages in it – Romani, Spanish, Irish, French, and maybe some Mandarian or Japanese. This is due to the different characters' origins and some other things, it all will make sense as the story continues. I will make a list at the end of each chapter with the words found in it, what the mean, and what language they are from. 

Athair (Irish): father  
Iníon (Irish): daughter  
Un trabajo. Aunque, yo contentamente le mataría para diversión, usted repugnando el pedazo de cerdo, yo tengo los asuntos más importantes en mano. (Spanish): A job. Though, I would gladly kill you for free, you disgusting piece of swine, I have more important matters at hand.  
Parolă (Romanian): password  
Dragostea din tei (Romanian): love from the linden trees


	2. Marquer votre territoire bien

**Chapter Two**

**Marquer Votre Territoire Bien**

**(Mark Your Territory Well) **

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**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the characters/items/other stuff from Hunchback of Notre Dame. They belong to Disney and Victor Hugo (I strongly recommend reading the original – Hugo is simply brilliant). I only use them for my own pleasure in writing, but I don't make a dime out of it, so please don't sue. All original characters are my own creation. 

**Author's Note**: Another already written chapter from a while ago. I edited much of it, disgusted in how terrible my grammar was back in the day, but actually quite enjoying how well written the story actually was. Anyways, onwards…

* * *

The sun had already fallen in the west when Jeta awoke from her sleep, only a few short hours since her arrival in Paris. As much as she wanted to simply roll over and return to her dream state, her training would not allow her to do so. Besides, Jeta knew that if she wanted to catch the job she came here for, she would have to be quick or someone else would be hired. 

Jeta had just finished bathing and dressing when there was a knock at her door. While brushing her hair, quite a task for the texture and thickness, Jeta unlocked and opened her bedroom door to reveal her master and surrogate father.

"Good evening iníon. I trust you have slept well."

With a snort, Jeta greeted Patrick, pushing the door open so he could enter.

"I would have slept better if the sun had stayed in the sky."

Patrick laughed at Jeta, allowing himself in as she had already walked back over to her vanity – one of the few things in the room that highlighted the fact that a woman lived there.

Jeta had been brought up in a male-dominated society and job, having no female friends to converse with. She did not have times for the trivial things most women concerned themselves with – makeup, clothing, and jewelry. Instead, she had focused all her will power into besting the men she worked so closely to, even if it had caused more than a few injuries in the past years.

Finally getting her hair to detangle itself enough to be manageable, Jeta knotted her black hair into a tight braid before twisting it into a bun on the nape of her neck. With that task done, she grabbed her black wool cloak from its place on a hook, she swooshed it on and turned to Patrick.

"Ready to go?"

"If you're done primping yourself."

Jeta bit her tongue, not wanting to argue. Her body was telling her that she needed to reach the bar across town, a well-known spot for hiring such people as herself and Patrick, that something was there that she needed to participate in. Even if she appeared calm and collected on the outside, her insides were burning up with anticipation and excitement.

Patrick and Jeta left their safe house and silently made their way to a local bar and inn - Le Bourreau. Jeta had been extra careful with hiding herself this evening as her Romany heritage could easily have her thrown in jail for breaking curfew. If worse came to worse, she could always play along as Patrick's servant again, a thought that made her mouth taste vile.

Upon reaching the tavern, Patrick and Jeta quietly slipped in, not wanting to draw attention to themselves. Patrick had been searching the room for a quiet corner when Jeta tugged at his sleeve and silently motioned to a table in the back. Making their way over, Jeta and Patrick sat down at the table, each lowering the hoods of their cloaks and making themselves comfortable until a serving girl came to help. Patrick had taken out his pipe and bag of tobacco as soon as his behind had found a place to sit, while Jeta had thrown her legs up on the chair across from her, crossing them at the ankle, relaxing back as if she owned the bar. It was several more minutes before they had received any service.

Ancelin had seen the odd pair enter, but had not put much thought into their presence, making a list in her head to go and ask for their orders. It was not until they had revealed their faces, or more specifically their earrings, a simple blood red feather in their right ear, when she decided to move them a bit up on her list. After taking the order of her current customer she walked over to the table in the farthest corner, making sure to keep any fear out of her features.

Ancelin was the head waitress in Le Bourreau and one of the most beautiful girls in Paris. She was of average height – around five foot four – and was a bit on the chubby side, but this only added to her ample curves and breasts. Her chocolate brown hair fell in ringlets and framed a round face with high cheekbones, full ruby lips, and deep green eyes. More than a few men had fallen over themselves to gain her attentions after drinking too much ale, and sometimes, even when they had not touched a drop of it.

Making her way over to the mismatched couple, she put on her most pleasant smiles and cleared her throat to announce her presence, still standing a respectable distance away.

"Is there anything I can be getting you?"

Jeta simply shook her head, unsheathed a small knife from her boot, and began to pick the dirt out from underneath her nails. Ancelin's smile steadily turned into a frown with each movement from the young girl in front of her, though she still tried to stay as pleasant as possible. Trying hard to resist the urge to yell at her customer or run away, she turned to the older gentleman, hoping that he would not be such a pest.

"Whatever the house special might be and a mug of your finest ale. For two, since my _rude_ partner doesn't seem to be in a talkative mood."

Jeta simply shrugged, continuing to work at her nails, stopping every now and then to bring a finger closer to her face to examine, before returning to her picking. Ancelin forced a smile onto her face, telling them their order would be out in a few minutes. Patrick gave Jeta a glare that could have killed lesser men, but Jeta simply shrugged it off and went back to knife and nails. The ale arrived shortly after, but their meal did not appear for another fifteen minutes. Neither complained as the cooking staff probably had to make it up when they got their order. Most of the customers were either drowning themselves in their drinks or too busy merrymaking to eat.

The pair picked at their food, exchanging snippets of conversation before a man sat down in front of them, carefully avoiding the seat that Jeta's feet occupied. Jeta and Patrick looked at each other before glancing at the man in front of them. Jeta answered this time.

"Can we help you?" Jeta questioned the man in front of her, not feeling quite comfortable with him and wanting to get this conversation over with as quickly as possible, feeling as if he was just simply a drunk who was unaware that he had sat at the wrong table.

"I believe you can." The man tugged at his right ear, indicating that he knew what their earrings stand for. "I wish to pay you for your… erm… services."

Jeta snorted, looking the man up and down, not believing that such a filthy and obviously poor man would ever think he could afford her and her partner. He was dressed in what appeared to be rags that had not been washed recently, if ever. His hair was a light blonde color, kept somewhat long, and looked dirty, his eyes were a pleasant sky blue, and his skin was the color of a middle-class citizen, not too tan and not too pale. This last factor was the one that forced Jeta to look a bit closer at the man, trying to figure out exactly who he was.

Upon closer inspection, Jeta noted that the tears and mud stains on his rags seemed to be made rather than acquired and his posture was upright, betraying his real position as a noble or guard. The man obviously did not want to deal with either of the bounty hunters by the way his eyes kept darting around and how his hand kept coming to rest on an ill-hidden sword. Jeta was about to respond negatively, noting that a man who dressed like he did would not be able to afford them, undercover guard or not, when he reached inside a pocket and dropped a small, yet tightly filled, pouch of coins. She instinctively grabbed the bag and began to open and inspect the money. While she did this, Patrick continued the conversation.

"And what exactly would you be employing us for?"

"I work for a man who has a very high place in society and government. Unfortunately, his life has been made difficult by the gypsies," the man paused here, gauging Jeta's reaction. She did nothing but continue her counting of the coins. "…that fill the streets of our fair city. His problems stem from a single source however and he wants it to be taken care of."

Patrick nodded and looked at Jeta who also nodded her head, confirming that the money was real and a large sum, but the short shake afterwards told him that it was not nearly enough for what the man was asking. Passing the money to Patrick, Jeta leaned forward, taking her feet down from the chair and inspecting the man's face. While Patrick counted the coins, Jeta conversed with the man.

"What is your name?"

The man lowered his stance and his voice, obviously not wanting to be overheard. Jeta noticed this and shifted a bit closer.

"Phoebus de Chateaupers. And yours?"

"You may call me 'Redima' and my partner is 'Foighne.' "

"Alright." Phoebus looked slightly confused, but just nodded his head. He then indicated to their earrings. "I am well known throughout the city and I do not wish to be recognized, especially sitting here with you two."

Jeta and Patrick promptly took out their feather earrings and put them away. There would be no need to be recognized for their profession as it was becoming more and more apparent that this man meant business.

"Understandably so when you are seeking out people such as myself and my partner," Jeta replied, noting that Phoebus' voice had continue to lower substantially throughout the course of the conversation.

Now that the pair hid their true occupations, Phoebus relaxed slightly, but it was forced. He ordered himself a drink and began to explain what he wanted done in the most vague of descriptions.

"There is a… problem… that must be taken care of. However, my superior does not wish to draw attention to himself or those that serve him. He wants me to use an outsider, someone competent… a professional, if you will. You are new in town as I have been watching this tavern for several days now. I was about to give up hope and reside myself to the fate that I would not be able to complete my superior's orders."

"I take it by your tone of voice that this is not something you would like to have to do."

"Not at all. He is known for his high ideals of justice and would never allow me to retain my position, maybe not even my life."

"May I ask who the current Minister of Justice is?"

Phoebus blinked, trying to hide his surprise. Did they know that he was his superior? Did this pair know more than they were letting on? But, if they did know more, they would already know who he is? Or maybe they did not know more, but were hiding the fact? Perhaps, though, it was just a lucky guess. All of this mystery and shadiness was out of Phoebus' league, but he had a job to perform and he never once failed in any task. Shaking his head, Phoebus downed the rest of his mug of ale, scooped up his remaining courage, and looked at Jeta.

"The current Minister of Justice is Judge Claude Frollo," here he paused and looked at the woman. "But I'm thinking it is safe to assume that you already know this."

"Touché, Capitaine."

Jeta tipped her glass to the Captain of the Guards and also finished her drink. Patrick glared at her, knowing that she loathed the Minister of Justice, but could tell by her more relaxed position and choice of wording that this was apparently the job she had been looking for. Unfortunately, he could not put his finger on why she would want to be hired by the man she hated second most in the world.

Phoebus frowned slightly. He did not think it was a safe idea to hire outsiders to help with eliminating the gypsies, and had argued this point to the Minister. Unfortunately, the Minister was not swayed by his argument and he was forced into finding a bounty hunter. Then again, if he was to be honest with himself, he completely disagreed with the Minister on the subject of the gypsy population but was not dimwitted enough to go against the Minister. Phoebus did not trust either Jeta or Patrick as they had already shown that they knew much more than they were letting on. Making a note of this, Phoebus continued the conversation.

"I am assuming you follow the same procedure as all of your… co-workers?"

"We decide upon place and time." Jeta stopped talking, leaned in towards Patrick, the two conversing for a few quick moments. Turning back to Phoebus, she informed him of the information. "Tomorrow, one in the afternoon sharp, at the Palace of Justice. My partner and I will be showing up as a master and his servant who have a land dispute to settle out in the countryside. Be ready or you will have to find someone else to employ."

Before Phoebus could open his mouth to agree, the pair had gotten up, thrown a few coins on the table for their meal, and were out the door. Leaning back into his chair, Phoebus began to rub his chin. This was not going to play out well in the end.

* * *

**Author's Note**: So, there was only one movie character in this chapter. I promise the next will have more. 

Athair (Irish): father  
Iníon (Irish): daughter  
Le Bourreau (French): The Hangman  
Redima (Spanish): Redeem  
Foighne (Irish): Patience  
Touché (French): used to acknowledge a successful criticism or effective point in argument  
Capitaine (French): Captain


	3. Juste un petit fou

**Chapter 3**

**Juste un Petit Fou**

**(Just a Little Crazy) **

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**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the characters/items/other stuff from Hunchback of Notre Dame. They belong to Disney and Victor Hugo (I strongly recommend reading the original – Hugo is simply brilliant). I only use them for my own pleasure in writing, but I don't make a dime out of it, so please don't sue. All original characters are my own creation. 

**Author's Note**: This chapter was something that, even having already written it a while ago, was even harder still to edit. I still do not think it is exactly right, but I find this version much smoother and flowing than its previous edition. Enjoy…

* * *

Judge Claude Frollo was a force to be reckoned with, especially when he was in a particularly foul mood. Today was one of those days when, if you saw the Minister walking down the streets, you would quickly run in the opposite direction. His morning thus far had been one disaster after another. Just thinking about the problems that had already arose within the first few hours of his waking caused a slight pressure to build behind his temples. 

As Minister of Justice, it was his job to dispense punishment and justice out to the criminals of Paris. Claude was known for dealing out harsh punishments even for the pettiest of crimes and having a very firm standing on what he believes to be justice. Most of his energy, however, was directed towards taking down the gypsy population that roamed the streets of Paris before returning to their hiding place, the Court of Miracles. For many years, Claude had been searching for this fabled sanctuary, but had yet to locate it. Finally, he became aware that that he did not need to take out the gypsies' home, but rather their leader – Bexhet Trouillefou. Claude did not trust his normal guards and spies to complete the task, so he had sent the Captain of the Guards out to find some outsiders who could. It had been six weeks since he had assigned the task to the captain and was being to grow impatient for results.

Standing at the wall-length stained-glass window in his small mansion outside of the Palace of Justice, Claude looked down on the people he was charged to judge. Parisians were going about their business – women buying clothes and food, children playing amongst themselves in the streets, men returning home for a bite before continuing their work day or going to a local pub for a drink. He thought of it as a pleasant sight that was only ruined by the sprinklings of brown amongst the white of the French.

Gypsies – the bane of his very existence. Every day he would do his daily ritual of watching the people of the city go by after his lunch and every day his eyes would drift to the gypsies who plagued the streets. Occasionally, his day would be brightened if he was able to observe one of his guards taking a gypsy in to be questioned, tortured, and, most likely, killed. The mere thought brought a sadistic smile to his face. However, like much of the beginning of the day, the gypsies were freely roaming the streets and there was not a single guard in sight.

A short and polite knock was heard at his office's mahogany door and he called out for the person to enter. It was one of Frollo's most trusted advisors and leaders of his own ring of spies - Benoît Blanc. Benoît was a thin, frail-looking man belying his strength and shrewdness. His hair was thin, white and straggly, falling to his shoulders and having several chucks missing while his skin was pale, nearly translucent, and sickly. Adding to this, his bones were clearly defined as if he had not eaten, but the old man actually had quite the appetite, and his once tall frame was now hunched over, making him appear shorter than he actually was. Claude had trusted Benoît with giving him sound advice and keeping tabs on his numerous spies for nearly three decades.

Claude walked over to his old friend who shut the door behind himself. The two shook hands and settled into two burgundy, high-backed, leather seats, each assuming their own comfortable position.

"My dearest friend, how has life been treating you?"

"The same as you from the looks of it. Just this morning I was nearly robbed by a gypsy man."

"That is grave news indeed."

Claude entwined his fingers together, resting his elbows on his knees, allowing him to lean forward and rest his head on his outstretched thumbs. His eyes had narrowed and his lips had thinned upon hearing this. The day was getting worse and worse.

"Can you not get your guards to better protect the fair citizens of Paris?"

"I will make sure to report this to the Captain. I assure you, this will not happen again."

Claude nodded his head, offering his apologies to Benoît. He would have to speak with the Captain of the Guard. Not only were the gypsies freely roaming the city, they were now getting cocky enough as to attempt to rob his chief advisor and this would simply not do. His friend interrupted his thoughts before he could further analyze the situation.

"Any luck with your search?"

"I am to assume you mean the assassination of that foul Bexhet Trouillefou." Claude sat up quite suddenly, clenching his hand into a fist before releasing his grip, noting the half-moon groves in his palm. "Unfortunately, this is yet another area that my captain is failing in. It has been six weeks and still no word of a competent bounty hunter to get the job done. If he does not produce one soon and discipline his men into shape, I fear Paris will have a new Captain of the Guard."

"Which might not be a terrible thing if this man is as lacking as you say he is."

"He is capable enough. I believe he truly puts forth his best, but, for some reason, is constantly lagging in everything. Perhaps a new position needs to be assigned for the captain. I hear a war is going on. Perhaps that is where he truly should be."

Benoît chuckled and Claude soon joined in. Though the Captain of the Guard was a competent fighter neither believed him capable of surviving any battle. They were interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Come in."

Claude and Benoît stood up and a man entered the door. It was the Captain of the Guards, Phoebus de Chateaupers, whom the two elderly men had just been talking about. Phoebus bowed to the two men, knowing his station, and waited to be addressed.

"Captain de Chateaupers. I was hoping I could have a word with you."

"Of course, Minister."

"Please, sit down."

Claude indicated to the chair Benoît had previously occupied. His head advisor took the hint and left the Minister to deal with the captain. Phoebus bowed his head as the advisor passed and Benoît nodded to him, a smile on his face. Once Benoît had exited the room, Phoebus made his way to the burgundy leather chair, but did not sit, waiting for the Minister.

Claude Frollo circled his Captain of the Guard, eyeing him up. Six weeks without any good news and now the gypsies were becoming even more unruly; Claude was most displeased. After completing a circle around Phoebus, he sat down behind his desk and waited for the captain to sit down as well. Upon sitting, Phoebus quickly began his report.

"Minister, I have good news for you."

"It better be spectacular news as Advisor Blanc has informed me he was almost robbed this morning by a gypsy."

Phoebus gaped at the Minister, clearly shocked that he heard the news. He had already heard of the incident and had disciplined the offending officer, demoting him to a sergeant and putting him on the night shift. Unfortunately, it did not matter how much discipline he dealt out as the Minister would be angry that the incident happened in the first place.

"I have heard Minister. Sergeant Rousset has been properly disciplined and my men have been warned that they cannot allow such things to happen to any of our city's citizens, whether peasants or nobles."

"Very good, Captain." Claude leaned back in his chair, his fingers again entwining themselves. He paused for a good two minutes, allowing the Captain to sweat in his seat. He finally continued. "Your news?"

Phoebus straightened himself out, sitting upright and clearing his face of emotion. He was surprised when the Minister did not reprimand him for the attempted robbery and tried to hide it; it was most unusual for the Minister not to be angered by such an episode. However, Phoebus thanked his lucky stars and decided to ignore this strange attitude from the Minister.

"I have found two bounty hunters who are willing to take the job, sir."

Claude sat up, startled by the news, before relaxing again, fixing his robes around him. He had expected to hear some mundane report of a countryside dispute being settled or something of the sort, but Claude's day was finally looking up. Claude quickly checked his excitement and cleared his throat.

"The details, Captain."

"They will be arriving, sir, at one o'clock at the Palace of Justice. They are a man and a woman. The man is tall and muscular, pale skin, bright red hair, blue eyes. The woman is shorter, thick black hair, dark eyes, and… dark skin, sir."

Claude's eyebrow quirked at this last bit of information. What was the Captain playing at?

"A gypsy woman, Captain?"

"Yes, sir. A woman. And, she certainly has the physical features of a gypsy." Phoebus paused, not wanting to continue, but did so at the nodding of his superior's head, the Minister clearly noticing the confusion in the Captain's eyes. "What I don't understand, sir, is why would she take a job that involved assassinating two of her kind?"

"A good question, Captain de Chateaupers, and one I hope will be answered at our meeting. Is there anything else you wish to report?" Phoebus shook his head, anxious to get out of the Minister's sight before the meeting took a turn for the worst. "You are dismissed."

Phoebus stood up, bowed, and left the room. He was happy to escape the Minister as he truly despised working for the man. However, his job demanded that he serve under those he least liked and dealt with it; he, himself, was treated well for the most part and his position guaranteed him safety.

Claude leaned back in his chair, a smile on his face, and was actually quite pleased with his captain's work. If this woman was indeed a gypsy, it could be a problem, but, at the same time, a blessing.

* * *

**Author's Note**: This chapter was originally never supposed to be included in the story, but I so greatly enjoyed creating the character of Benoît when I started this fan fiction that I had to include him in some way. This was a bit shorter than the rest of but still just as important. 


	4. Les roues règlent dans le mouvement

**Chapter Four**

**Les Roues Rè****glent dans le Mouvement**

**(Wheels Put in Motion) **

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**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the characters/items/other stuff from Hunchback of Notre Dame. They belong to Disney and Victor Hugo (I strongly recommend reading the original – Hugo is simply brilliant). I only use them for my own pleasure in writing, but I don't make a dime out of it, so please don't sue. All original characters are my own creation. 

**Author's Note**: This is the fourth chapter of my Hunchback of Notre Dame fan fic. This was probably the most difficult to edit out of the past four chapters. Enjoy…

* * *

Jeta and Patrick made their way through the streets of Paris, trying to avoid drawing attention to themselves. As they had agreed upon in the inn, Jeta was dressed as a servant, wearing a simple blue cotton dress with a white pattern apron over it and a white bonnet tied under her chin, and Patrick was disguised as a peasant farmer from the countryside, complete with shabby denim pants and a dirty tan shirt. They had gone over the plan for the afternoon after returning to the safe house the previous night, finalizing every detail. Both were hoping that the meeting would go smoothly. 

Arriving at the Palace of Justice, Patrick stated his reason for visiting the Minister and why his servant girl was with him. It only took a few short moments before they were ushered into the Minister's waiting room. One o'clock finally had come and a young boy invited them into the Minister's office. He told them where to sit and that the Minister would be with them shortly. Jeta quirked her eyebrow, a frown on her face, and Patrick just shook his head in response. He was aware that Jeta did not like to be kept waiting, but knew she would not blow her cover over the Minister being tardy. Instead, they settled themselves into the uncomfortable red leather high-back chairs in front of the Minister's desk and sat in silence, waiting for the judge to finally arrive.

Fifteen minutes had passed before the Minister of Justice showed himself.

Opening the door to his office, Claude Frollo was not surprised to see the two bounty hunters before him. He was, however, surprised by how perfectly they looked like a farmer and his servant. If it was not for the fact that he was expecting them, he would have quickly assumed that this was simply another problem in Paris. This only impressed the Minister and he allowed a slight smile to cross his features before he introduced himself properly to the others.

Reaching out a hand to the older man, whom Claude noted was definitely of Irish descent, he introduced himself and apologized for his lateness.

"Good afternoon. I doubt you do not know who I am but for the sake of formalities, I am Judge Claude Frollo. How do you do?"

Patrick shook the Minister's hand quickly, but with much strength behind it. The judge did not even offer a second's glance at the woman, quickly moving behind his desk and taking a seat. Jeta noticed this and made to protest, but closed her mouth when she saw a hand motion from Patrick. She should have known that the Minister would not treat her with any respect, but to blatantly refuse to acknowledge her presence was going a bit far. Biting her tongue, Jeta knew that small sacrifices had to be made if she wanted to be hired for the job that she had traveled so far for.

"I apologize for my tardiness," began Claude, his eyes still on the man. "I had a small, but urgent, problem that needed to be taken care of."

The Minister did not further elaborate.

" 'Tis quite alright," responded Patrick.

"Were you waiting long?"

"No. About fifteen minutes."

Claude nodded his head in apologetic way and sat himself down at his desk. He offered the two chocolate raspberry tarts and liquor-laced tea, neither of them accepting. The Minister had assumed they would, knowing how bounty hunters were prone to suspecting betrayal from anyone and everyone. Upon pouring himself a cup of tea, adding some cream and honey, he leaned back in his chair, ready to begin their meeting. Without further hesitation or stalling, Claude got straight to the point.

"My captain has informed me that you are willing to accept the offer I have made."

Jeta cleared her throat and sat forward, leaning her arms on her legs, her fingers once again preoccupying themselves by twiddling her knife. Claude, although now unable to ignore the woman's presence, forced himself not to comment on her lack of respect for him; these people, after all, were brutal and unrefined, barely human at all in his mind.

"Actually, your captain only mentioned that you were willing to hire us. Something about the gypsies, but nothing beyond that." She paused, waiting for a sign that the Minister even noticed her. He finally nodded. "We do not inquire about specifics until we meet with the actual employer. It would cause too much trouble with communications otherwise, if you understand what I mean."

"I see." Claude folded his hands together, still taken aback that the woman answered him. Surely the Irishman sitting in front of him would be able to rein her in and not allow her to speak unless spoken to. Perhaps such manners and etiquette did not apply to the lowlifes that he was forced to hire. "I am sure, then, that you would like to be filled in on why I desire to hire you."

"That is why we're here."

Jeta leaned back, a smile on her face, amused that the Minister had been affronted by her answering, the dagger now safely back in its sheath. She did not want to be a pushover during this meeting as she despised the Minister and knew he would do anything to lower her because of both her Romani heritage and that she was a female, but she was not the type to take it lying down. Asserting herself slightly would certainly offend the man, but even he had to admit to his own lowliness in resorting to such unholy means to meet his ends.

Claude cleared his throat and looked at the man, who raised a hand for silence when the Minister went to continue.

"Perhaps it would be wise if you would shut and lock your doors as well as draw the drapes. We do not want this conversation to be overheard."

The Minister made a movement as to reprimand the man sitting across from him for suggesting that he had not already made such preparations. However, to appease the two bounty hunters, the Minister drew the drapes and locked the one and only door to his office. These actions seemed to suffice the two as they relaxed a bit into their seats.

"My captain informed you correctly when he told you that this concerns the gypsies in Paris. They have, for the longest time, filled the streets of Paris with their filth, their witchcraft, tricking the minds of the fair citizens. For the past thirty-one years, I have been trying to rid Paris of the gypsy population, but have thus far, not succeeded."

Jeta smirked slightly. "Quite a large task for one man, don't you think?"

"Indeed," snarled the Minister, already having had enough of the woman's cheek. "But as my job as Minister of Justice, a task that must be completed regardless of the obstacles."

"Understandably so."

Jeta nodded her head, signaling that she was done interrupting the Minister and would allow him to continue uninterrupted.

"I have searched for their fabled hideaway, the Court of Miracles, but have had no success in finding it."

Jeta did not make any movement, as if the place that he had just mentioned meant nothing to her, and the Minister fixed his gaze on her, trying to see if she truly had no reaction. Instead of shifting in her seat in discomfort, as so many did when Claude decided to rest his eyes on them, she smiled and leaned forward the tiniest of bits.

"Is there something you would like to ask me, Minister?"

"There is, Miss…"

"No miss. Redima."

The Minister paused, obviously not amused. Jeta smiled pleasantly as if they were on the corner of the street discussing the weather over a cup of tea.

"Very well, Redima, I am curious to understand why you would take this job."

No longer seeing a need to beat around the bush about what exactly the Minister was talking about, Jeta sighed inwardly.

"I am sure you are well aware of my heritage."

"Indeed, how could one not be."

Jeta and Claude glared at one another before Patrick coughed and interrupted them. It took several more seconds before the two broke their eye contact and turned to the Irishman.

"I am just concerned about if you are able to complete this job or not," the Minister responded, an eyebrow quirked and obvious mistrust in his eyes.

"Trust me, monsieur, when I say that my blood will not get in the way of any assignment you might ask of me."

Claude nodded, still not satisfied, but willing to give the woman a chance. Besides, if she messed up, he could always have exterminated before she even walked out the door.

Jeta had relaxed into her seat and was now fingering the dagger at her ankle again, not particularly paying attention to anything. Patrick sighed, knowing that this was a sure sign that Jeta was agitated but trying to hide it, and continued the conversation with Minister Frollo, knowing nothing would be achieved if he did not step in. He could still not see why Jeta would want this particular job.

"Well, now that that has all been cleared up, we might get to the point of our meeting."

"Yes." Claude leaned back into his chair, lacing his fingers together and placing them delicately into his lap. He waited a few more moments before continuing. "I desire to hire you both for two assassinations. That of Bexhet Trouillefou and his son, Clopin." Here Patrick's eyes went wide for one second, before quickly hiding his reaction. If the Minister had noticed, he did not make a sign that he had. "Him and his band of miscreants dirty the streets of the pure Paris with their wages and dances and other such satanic items. But no longer. No longer will they roam freely in the streets. No longer will they flee to a yet located place. I will have order."

The Minister paused, reaching a shaking hand over to sip of his tea. He always became flustered when having to talk about the plague of gypsies they refused to leave his fair city alone. After calming down slightly, not a word having escaped the lips of the two assassins in front of him, he began again.

"I have thought long and hard upon this and came to the conclusion that without their beloved leader, the gypsies would be afraid of the power I wield. The gypsy king is the reason why the gypsies are so free and rebellious in the city. He rebels them. Tells them that no harm can befall them while he is around. He is a ringleader of a pack of thieves and vagabonds, nothing more, and it is about time that he realizes I am a force to be reckoned with. Unfortunately for him and his demonic spawn, however all the better for me, it is not enough to simply destroy the gypsy leader. I need to also dispose of his son, who is already quite troublesome without him becoming the leader of an outraged group of fools. With those two out of the picture, the gypsies will fear me, knowing they are no longer safe from the wrath of the guard, justice swiftly descending upon them, and they will leave the city of Paris or die."

Jeta and Patrick looked at each other, Patrick finally fully understanding the reason why Jeta wanted to accept the job and Jeta wanting to see Patrick's reaction to the two targets. It had been no secret to Patrick that Jeta had long despised the gypsies, particularly the tribe located in Paris, but she had never outwardly done anything to cause harm to them. For as long as he had known her, which was quite a number of years, Jeta had simply treated them with disrespect and ignored their presence. However, agreeing to this job would be placing her into the heart of the place that she loathed so very much. Patrick was afraid; would agreeing to this job mean he would lose the young woman he had raised since a small child to her resentment and revenge?

Needing to discuss all of this with Jeta before deciding to accept the proposition put forth by the Minister, Patrick stood up.

"A minute, Minister."

Claude nodded his head. Jeta stood up and walked to a far corner, away from the Minister. The Minister watched, slightly amused yet more so anxious, as the pair began to have a deep conversation. It was several long minutes as Claude watched the two, who were both trying very hard to not allow the Minister see that they were bickering. Having been an observant man since his youth, Claude could pick up their subtle body and facial expressions. The man, Claude then noted that the Irishman had never given him a name, was obviously upset and worried, making soothing hand gestures, his eyes crinkled in concern, lines clearly etched on his face. The woman, however, was laughing it off; her facial expression betrayed, however, that she was frustrated the older man's worry and her lack of patience was apparent in her lips which had gone quite thin. It was another ten minutes before the two moved back towards the Minister, sitting themselves back down in their respective chairs.

"I hope there is not a disagreement between the two of you," voiced the Minister, an air of smugness in the statement.

"No, Minister. There was just a slight misunderstanding, but all is well."

Patrick smiled and waited for the Minister of Justice to continue. Claude did so after studying the larger man, trying to find a hint of deceit. When he was certain that Patrick was not lying to him about any residual resentment between the pair, Claude continued.

"Your pay for such a task is five thousand francs a piece for the head of Bexhet Trouillefou as well as an addition five thousand for the termination of his eldest son, Clopin. Twenty thousand francs in total; not a bad deal, I might add."

Patrick let off a low whistle, impressed with how much the Judge was willing to pay for their services. With that amount of money, Jeta and Patrick could go quite a number of years without worrying about working. Jeta smiled at her partner, amused by his reaction. His logical reasoning behind not wanting to take the job could not overcome the fact that both were low on money and that this job would certainly provide them for quite a while. For Jeta, it was double the reward for her and she knew that Claude had just signed the deal, having played towards the greedy side of Patrick.

"I am assuming that this is a more than fair price and intrigues at least one of you."

"Indeed, monsieur," Jeta being the one to answer. The Minister was not surprised by this and was simply waiting for the other man to agree to the deal.

Jeta quirked an eyebrow, turning towards Patrick; she waited for his own response to the Minister's offer. The wheels were turning in Patrick's head – the francs would be very welcomed indeed – but he was still concerned about his partner. However, after looking at Jeta's face which was filled with a well hidden excitement and eagerness coupled with his own need to make some more money, Patrick smiled. Claude took this as a good sign and continued.

"I believe now is when I tell you how I want the two men…" Claude said the word men with such loathing and disgust, it was apparent that he thought of neither of the targets as anything more than a disgusting stain on his clothing, one that needed to be taken care of promptly. "…brought to justice, but I believe that you are both creative and professional enough to carry out my wishes in any way you see fit. I do not particularly care how it is done, but that it is done and they are both dead. Proof, obviously, would be required"

Patrick opened his mouth to make a suggestion when Jeta cut him off, excitement glimmering in her eyes.

"Would you be disinclined if we were to carry out a betrayal?"

Claude smiled sadistically at Jeta, very interested in her proposal. Patrick now did not even try to restrain himself from the surprise that shot through his body. He turned forcefully towards his partner, but did not utter a word when he noticed the glint in her eyes. Having only seen this glint once before on a particularly nasty assignment, Patrick, nonetheless, knew better than to stand in front of Jeta's way. Claude, however, was highly impressed by Jeta's suggestion. Although a gypsy and a woman, she appeared to harbor an animosity for the gypsy population and was as ruthless as he was, if not more. Claude nodded his head and waved his hand, urging her to explain herself further.

"Although what I suggest would certainly take a much longer time to complete your desired results, I believe it would be a much more… fulfilling… way to achieve your ends. For no additional charge, I am willing to act as a loyal gypsy, gain the trust of both the leader and his son, and then assassinate both of them. Their deaths will be extremely crippling blow to the Romani community, especially knowing that someone could penetrate their suspicious, highly secretive society and commit such an act. They will become uneasy and perhaps unruly for a time, but after such a blow, knowing that they can no longer trust even their own kind, they will be unable to come up with a strong leader to save them and eventually realize that their time in Paris has come to an end." Here, Jeta paused, gathering her thoughts and breath, her desire to commit such a terrible act in her eyes. The pause allowed for the Minister to take in all of her words. When she was certain that the Minister had heard her properly, Jeta continued. "If you were to agree to such a deal, it would add on a considerable amount of time before the actual assassinations would happen. It could be anywhere from a few short months to a year or two."

Claude smirked at Jeta, distorting the somewhat handsome features into a painting of horror and devilish imagery.

"I believe, Redima, that you and I have a deal."

* * *

**Author's Note**: This chapter was almost completely rewritten by the time I got done editing it. Of course, the main ideas and gist of dialogues were there, but I changed much of it to fit better with the characters as well as including much more detail. 

Redima (Spanish): Redeem  
Monsieur (French): Mister


	5. Marcher dignement un gitan

**Chapter Five**

**Marcher Dignement un Gitan **

**(Stalking a Gypsy) **

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**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the characters/items/other stuff from Hunchback of Notre Dame. They belong to Disney and Victor Hugo (I strongly recommend reading the original – Hugo is simply brilliant). I only use them for my own pleasure in writing, but I don't make a dime out of it, so please don't sue. All original characters are my own creation. 

**Author's Note**: This chapter was only half-written when I opened the file, so I had to improvise on where I originally intended this chapter to go. I don't particularly like this chapter, but then again, I don't like much of my own writing.

* * *

Clopin Trouillefou stepped out of the bridge's sewer tunnel and into the bright Parisian sunlight, blinking his eyes while tugging down his royal purple hat. It was just after sunrise and Clopin was planning on getting an early start with his puppetry. However, his eyes would need a few minutes to adjust to the light before he would be able to get anywhere without stumbling into a wall. 

Clopin, although an outcast of the Parisian society due to his Romani heritage, was well known throughout the streets of Paris as being the best puppeteer there was. Children of all ages came from every corner of the large city to enjoy his puppet shows. However, they were joined by many women who found the gypsy man to be extremely attractive and it is not hard to see why. Clopin prided himself on staying in excellent condition in order to perform his acrobatic stunts and while his lithe body hid the strong muscles, Clopin was not a man to be messed with. Knowing full well of all the attention he brought to himself, Clopin chose his performing garb quite carefully – form-fitting yellow and purple tights, snug purple and blue tunic, and yellow cowl with gold bells – that was not only colorful enough for the children, but flattering enough for his many admirers. His slim, well-structured face with striking coal eyes complete with silky jet black hair and a matching goatee was enough to make any lady swoon. Despite the many persecutions against himself and his people, Clopin seemed to be extremely carefree and quite the troublemaker. Even so, he was extremely loyal to his people and showed a large amount of respect for his parents.

Having spared a few moments for his eyes to adjust, Clopin began his short walk to his puppet cart in one of the busiest squares in Paris. It was still too early for any of the children who watched him perform to be out, so he was looking forward to repainting the face on one of his puppets. Upon arriving at his cart, Clopin was surprised to see two of the children already waiting for him.

"Le bon matin cher," Clopin said to the two children, sweeping the younger one, a girl, into his arms and tickling her sides. "What are you doing at my cart so early?"

Colette, the young girl Clopin had picked up, around the age of five, had blonde curls that fell to her chin, brilliant blue eyes, and freckles dancing across her pale face. Her brother, Julien, was not much older than her, at around eight years old, had stick straight blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, dark brown eyes, and pale skin. Both of the children were frequent customers of Clopin and he was used to seeing them in the crowd.

Julien answered, stepping closer to Clopin, one hand tugging on his tunic, the other in a fist near his mouth. "Mother left us here. She said she had somewhere to go."

Clopin sighed, shaking his head. Clopin knew Colette and Julien's mother, Alice Beaufort, especially as she had once been a frequent lover of his. Their mother, although married, did not stick to her marriage bed and was constantly cavorting with younger men. Today was apparently another day when Alice left her children to the streets of Paris to have some fun in another man's bed. Usually when this happened, the children spent the day watching each of Clopin's shows and sharing their noontime meal with him. As much as he would rather be at a bar, flirting with the barmaids, his love of children kept him at his cart to watch the two children. His stream of thought, however, was interrupted by an insistent tugging at his tunic.

"Monsieur Clopin, does Mother not love us?"

Clopin looked down at Julien, not knowing how to respond. "Of course she does, mon petit enfant. Your mother just wanted you to have a free day. A day to explore Paris without her. She wants you to grow strong when she is not near you."

"I am strong, but I don't want to spend the day alone." Julien looked terrified and Colette had buried her head in the crook of Clopin's neck.

Clopin bent down, patting Julien on the head. "You won't. You and Colette can spend the day with me, only if you want, of course."

"Monsieur Clopin." Colette tugged at the feather in Clopin's hat to get his attention. "We'd love to stay with you."

"Oui," Julien replied. "We will have so much fun."

Clopin smiled and put Colette back down on the ground. Squatting to come face-to-face with Julien, Clopin rested his hands on his knees.

"Now, stay out here and behave. I am going to go set up for the first show. If anyone tries to harm you, call out my name and I will save you. Comprenez?"

"Oui!" both children responded with excitement before situating themselves in front of the cart, trying to find a comfortable spot on the cobblestone street, eagerly waiting for the show to begin.

Clopin entered his cart and began to prepare for his first performance. But before he did this, he checked to make sure he had enough food and water in his cart for not only himself, but his two charges. Upon making sure of this, he set up the scenery and freshened up his puppets. Peeking his head outside, Clopin noted that more children had arrived for the performance, eagerly waiting for him to begin. Deciding that the children had waited long enough and noticing that there was quite a crowd outside his cart, Clopin put the finishing touches on his puppets and scenery. Peeking through a crack to ensure that Colette and Julien were still there and safe, Clopin began his show.

"Le bon matin cher!" called Clopin to the collection of children eagerly sitting beneath his cart. The group quickly began to cheer, clap, and beam up at the Romani man before them, so happily clad in bright, playful colors. From the sides of the crowd, the mothers politely applauded, a few of them blushing when Clopin waved.

"Is everyone ready for this morning's performance?"

All the children, again, applauded. Before long, they were soon calling out their favorites, hoping that the storyteller would choose their own.

"Please, monsieur, tell us of the hunchback again?"

"No, monsieur, tell us about the princess trapped in a tower."

"No, tell us the one with the dragon and soldier."

Clopin laughed joyfully at the enthusiasm in all of their eyes. Holding his hands up in silence, a hush quickly fell over the crowd.

"How about I tell you a new story? A story about a young boy and a mysterious lamp? Hum… does that sound exciting?"

"Oui!" cried at all of the children, quickly settling into as comfortable a position as they could and turned their youthful faces to the dark man before them, rapt attention echoed in their eyes.

And so, Clopin began his tale of faraway deserts, a rebellious princess and an orphan boy who falls in love and comes across a magical genie. The mass of youths were excellent audience members, always laughing at the right time and following his every word. By the end of the half an hour, the children were begging for more, even as their mothers placed a coin in Clopin's jar and began to drag them away to fulfill their morning chores.

One woman, however, lingered at Clopin's stage, watching him as he began to clean up his cart, placing each marionette and puppet carefully in its proper place, not noticing the small children now sitting at the steps to the entrance of his cart. Leaning over ever so slightly, Gemile Baptista purred the storyteller's name.

"Oh Clopin," the gypsy looked up over the edge of the stage, which he had been kneeling behind, catching full sight of the French woman's voluminous breasts. Trying to behave as if he had not noticed this, Clopin stood to his full height, glancing at Collete and Julien from the corner of his eye. They seemed to not have noticed the presence of the young woman and were happily playing between each other. "Surely you can make time for one of your adoring admirers."

"Ah, Mademoiselle Baptista," Clopin leaned over and quickly pecked Gemile's cheek. "It is always an honor to be in the presence of such beauty."

Clopin had exquisite taste in women and would bed none but the most gorgeous and Gemile Baptista was no exception. One of his younger conquests, Gemile had a somewhat long face, doe-like baby blue eyes, and long wavy amber hair that only helped to accentuate her full breasts, tiny waist, and always blushed lips. True, she had just barely reached of age and still lived with her family, but this mattered not to Clopin whose womanizing ways were almost as well known as storytelling and acrobatic abilities.

"Indeed," she replied, a slight blush creeping into her cheeks, a hand coming to rest on Clopin's own. "I was wondering if you would care to walk me home this afternoon? Father is out with Mother and I would hate to have to arrive home so alone. Could you imagine what might happen to me without a proper escort?"

Gemile's eyebrow arched in a most beautiful, and suggestive, manner, leaving Clopin wishing that he did not have to care for the children on his steps. However, he would not leave them on the streets alone; his love of children rising about his love of women.

"Unfortunately, ma dame juste, I have to watch over the two small children over there."

Clopin pointed to Collete and Julien, who had finally seen Gemile talking to the storyteller. They waved pleasantly, not noticing the slight tension between the couple. Waving back, Gemile flipped open her fan and blocked Clopin and herself from the children's sight.

"You could not slip away for even an hour's time?"

"I'm afraid not."

Clopin shook his head sadly, greatly upset that he would be missing out on such a great opportunity. His promise to the children reared its head in the back of his mind and he knew he would not leave them to themselves, not like their own mother had.

Gemile pouted, only making her even more attractive. "Until later then, mon amant."

Turning around slowly, Gemile blew a kiss over her shoulder at Clopin before gracefully walking away, her hips swinging side-to-side suggestively. Swallowing hard, Clopin closed his eyes and breathed deeply, reminding himself that he could not leave the children alone. Sighing, he picked up the basket of food he had for himself and the two angels sitting outside his cart, his thoughts still on the pretty young lady who had just paid him a visit.

Clopin's mood dramatically improved after his talk with Mademoiselle Baptista as the rest of the day past without incident, every show an instant hit. Madame Beautfort stopped by at the last show to pick up her children, evidence of her all day romp evident in her glistening eyes and flushed face. The jealousy he felt flare up inside of him, wishing he had been that younger man in her bed, was instantly replaced with anger at the two laughing children who threw their bodies against her legs, rambling on about their exciting day spent with the puppeteer. Cleaning his cart and changing into a less exuberant outfit, Clopin exited his cart and locked it behind him. Waving at Corin, a fellow gypsy, who had come to move Clopin's cart to its place in the nearby alleyway, Clopin whistled on his way to his favorite local pub – La Bourreau.

Upon entering the bar, several of the normal patrons raised a hand or voice in welcome, Clopin cheerfully returning the gestures. Taking a seat at his usual chair by the fireplace, Ancelin brought him a mug of his favorite without Clopin even asking. This, he thought, is what made life living. Ancelin merely shook her head as two women, prostitutes by their low-cut bodices and highly rouged faces, sidled up the gypsy man, his arms instantly going around their waists, pulling them in closer. Corin slipped in quietly behind Clopin, noting where the other gypsy was before settling at the bar, Ancelin coming up to him.

"I see Monsieur Trouillefou has started his celebrations earlier than usual this evening." As the words left Ancelin's lips, the cheerful laughter of Clopin filled the air followed by the coy giggling from his two female companions. Each of them leaned in, placing a kiss on either of his cheeks as Clopin began to whisper into the blonde's ear, the brunette instantly jealous and placing her hand on his thigh.

Corin shook his head, used to such behavior from Clopin. "Indeed, it appears that way."

"Such a waste. A handsome young man spending his nights cavorting with... with women like them. He should find himself a wife."

"You are not the only one who thinks so, mademoiselle." Looking over, Corin noted the pout Ancelin was wearing as well as the one hand on her hip as she watched Clopin entertaining his prostitutes. Ancelin simply shook her head and began to clear up the bar.

"Corin! My dear friend! You must join me!"

Chuckling softly, Corin got up to join Clopin, leaving Ancelin with an empty mug and apologetic smile. As much as he loved spending time with his close friend, Corin was a much quieter man. He was shorter than Clopin by several inches and was broader in every sense of the word; however, while Clopin was smiles and magic, Corin was simple and gentle, preferring a quiet spot with his easel. Sitting down next to the pretty brunette, Corin joined Clopin.

As the night carried on, neither men nor the barmaid noticed the small woman hidden in the back corners, a cloak wrapped around her lithe form and a hood masking her face. The only visible feature was a long pipe extending from the depths of the hood, a wisp of smoke twisting its way into the air and up to the ceiling. Her eyes never left the gypsy man until he had stumbled his way out the door and onto the streets, his arm around the blonde prostitute who was more than happy to accompany him to a nearby hotel. Throwing a few coins on the table to pay for her single drink of water, the stranger left the bar, stopping outside as Clopin and the prostitute turned down a back alley.

"This is going to be too easy," whispered Jeta to the night air, a barely noticeable smile on her lips.

* * *

**Author's Note:** This took me a lot longer for me to complete than I thought it would. I had most of it written and then I just hit a writer's block. I can't guarantee when the next chapter will be up as I'm back in college and ultra busy. Sorry about that. Don't forget to review if you like it. 

Le bon matin cher (French): Good morning dears  
Oui (French): Yes  
Comprenez? (French): Understand?  
mon petit enfant (French): my small child  
Mademoiselle (French): title of an unmarried woman  
Monsieur (French): title of any man, married or otherwise  
ma dame juste (French): my fair lady  
mon amant (French): my lover


	6. Et donc il commence

**Chapter Six**

**Et Donc Il Commence**

**(And So It Begins) **

* * *

** Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the characters/items/other stuff from Hunchback of Notre Dame. They belong to Victor Hugo (the original mastermind whom I strongly recommend reading as the original is absolutely brilliant and puts Disney to shame) and Disney (as most of the characterization is based on this version). I only use them for my own pleasure in writing, but I don't make a dime out of it, so please don't sue. All original characters are my own creation. 

**Author's Note**: I apologize for having posted the wrong chapter for Chapter Four. I was editing the format of each chapter and must have clicked on the wrong one when I decided to replace chapter four. Thankfully, the correct version was still saved on Thank you, Sweet Valentine, for pointing that out to me. Anyways, onto the story…

* * *

"Where have you been?" 

Jeta sighed as she pressed her body against the wooden door to her room, letting it close under her slight weight. She had been hoping to sneak back into the safe house without Patrick noticing she was missing, but it was obviously a failure. Who was she kidding? Patrick had always known her every move even after all of her extensive training. Turning to face the inevitable, Jeta wiped her face of all emotion.

"Just out for a walk. Why?"

Trying to put on her most genuine smile, Jeta shrugged off her traveling cloak, placing it on its hook near the door, and turned back to Patrick, his face set in stone, a grimace across his features.

"I'm in trouble, aren't I?" Jeta's smile faltered and she began to twist her fingers, pulling at the digits, while she began to bite her lip. Patrick remained silent, knowing that she was trying to soften him up and he would have none of it. They were supposed to be partners.

"Indeed," Patrick stated, rising from the chair he had been seated in, cracking his knuckles as he walked closer to her. Stopping in front of her, Jeta lowered her eyes, realizing she was about to get an earful. "You are."

Jeta shook her head and brushed past Patrick, rubbing her temples as she sat down in the chair he had just occupied. "Let's get this over with."

Patrick clenched his fists together, forcing himself not to get angry at the young woman in front of him. It was not her fault that she was so headstrong and independent as he had instilled such traits into her. But there was a fine line between stubbornness and stupidity and Jeta had passed over into the latter when she left that evening without him.

"I have nothing to say to you, Jeta."

Her head shot up at these words. Nothing to say? That is ridiculous. Since she had first been found and entered this profession, Patrick had been more than a source of love and warmth; he was her teacher and mentor. Jeta's mouth opened and closed several times before it finally stayed shut and she began to twist her fingers again.

"What do you mean?"

"Do I have to repeat myself? I have nothing to say to you. You're eighteen now. You don't need an old man to follow you around."

Patrick turned his back to her, his shoulders sagging in defeat. He had sat in her room since she left, planning out exactly what he was going to say. As soon as he saw Jeta, Patrick knew that if she had not learned her lesson by now that she was not going to learn it from him. His instincts about this job were already starting to come true and it had only been a day. They had always been partners. Always. Maybe she really was old enough to be on her own; after all, all students left their mentors eventually. Shaking his head, Patrick banned such thoughts from his mind, not wanting to think of his partner, his daughter, leaving him.

Jeta looked at Patrick a few moments, confusion clearly defined in every feature of her face, not that he could see this with his back to her. Patrick had always offered his opinion to Jeta, whether she wanted to hear it or not. This sudden change in attitude startled her and Jeta was beginning to wonder if Patrick was more upset with their current job than he was letting on. Her temper instantly flared as this thought passed through her mind and a scowl appeared on her face, her lips dangerously thin. Biting her tongue, Jeta kept her cheek in check enough to not tear into Patrick when she responded.

"Oh," was all Jeta could say as she brushed past him, Patrick looking up as she moved by him. "In that case, monsieur, perhaps you will let me sleep as I have much to do in the morning."

Without waiting for a response from Patrick, she opened the door, a hand extending out into the hallway. Patrick's eyes, so filled with concern only moments ago, suddenly narrowed as he made his way to the entranceway. Pausing at the frame, he leaned down to Jeta, her body not shifting at his closeness.

"You better watch yourself, mademoiselle. I'm your only friend here."

Jeta stiffened at his words. She turned to say something, her mouth opened and the words on the tip of her tongue, but Patrick had already left, halfway down the hall by the time she had even reacted. Sighing, Jeta closed her door and went to bed, her thoughts plaguing her sleep.

It was several more days before either of them saw each other again. Patrick spent the majority of his time fretting over the situation and trying to work out his frustration in the sparring ring located in the exercise room of the safe house. Most nights, being one of the oldest in his profession, he returned to his room to simply soak away the aches and bruises. Many times he found himself standing outside of Jeta's door, his fist ready to knock, but he stopped himself. Although it was a joint commission, Jeta had taken this on as her own job and he knew she needed to figure this one out for herself. He just hoped that their relationship would survive what was sure to be a many difficult months. Patrick kept telling himself that Jeta would come around eventually, that all she needed was time.

Jeta, in the meantime, began to prepare her guise of a gypsy. The day after her fight with Patrick, she had gone out into the rural area surrounding Paris and purchased a small cart where she could sell her wares. For the longest time, Jeta had drawn, painted, sculpted, and did anything else artistic that she could lay her hands on. Patrick had only encouraged this in her, saying that she needed to learn the deftness with her fingers; she soon found out, however, that he viewed it as a way to keep her human as well as a release from their stressful occupation. When she was younger, each work of art was presented to the Irishman in hopes of gaining his approval. When she turned thirteen, she started to show less and less to her surrogate father until one day they stopped entirely. Now, her work would be on display and, if anyone was interested, sold. Jeta knew it was a small sacrifice for a larger goal, but she was still quite attached to many of her images. In addition, she had put together a small wardrobe of clothing that would allow her to fit in more easily with the tribe she was going to submerge herself into. It had taken many painstaking hours as sewing was not her forte, but Patrick's, and she was still refusing to talk to him.

It was a little over two weeks later, when there was a knock at her door. Jeta was already awake and dressed when Patrick opened the door cautiously at her calling, no expression on his face. He had finally given into his desire to see her, to make sure that she was okay, even though she had shown no signs of wanting to see him. Her mouth instantly opened to say something to the man before her.

"Patrick, I…"

Patrick raised a hand to stop the flow of words that were about to spill from her mouth.

"Don't worry about it, iníon. I have already forgotten about it."

Nodding, knowing that arguing further would only cause them to go around in circles, Jeta wrapped a cloak tight around her, trying to hide the colorful dress she was wearing. It had been ten years since she last wore anything resembling the traditional garb of her heritage. The outfit consisted of an off-white loose shirt with sleeves that came to her elbows and hung off her shoulders, a vibrant blue skirt and teal sash, and a black corset. She wore nothing on her feet and her usual red feather earring was replaced with a single gold hoop. Patrick also noted that the material was slightly worn and that she must have created the attire out of clothes she already had in her closet. Jeta had caught Patrick processing her appearance and her eyebrow was raised in a questioning manner.

"Yes, athair?" she asked, opening the cloak for him to gain a better view.

"Nothing, I just haven't seen you wear something like that since..." Patrick's voice stopped there and he coughed, turning to make his way down the hall. They had never talked about that day and this moment was certainly not the time or place to open up that discussion. "We should get going."

The pair made their way up the winding staircase of the safe house and out the front door. A comfortable silence had settled between the two; they had not enjoyed such a thing in a number of days and Jeta was highly grateful for Patrick's presence. The area where the dilapidated building was located was not home to many people, the neighborhood being mostly deserted besides the homeless and the drunks. However, as soon as they reached slightly more populated areas, Jeta disappeared off to his right, making her way to a painted cart in an adjacent alleyway.

Patrick did not stop as his partner left, acting as if she had suddenly not disappeared from his side. Continuing down the stone pathways, Patrick let his mind blank out, but his attention never leaving the many shadows and hiding places along the path. He did not want to think about the situation between him and Jeta, but he was not stupid enough to forget his training which dictated that he keep his eyes open for any hostile persons. Thankfully, he was met with no scuffles between the safe house and the Palace of Justice, a miracle as the Parisian police loved to push around foreigners such as himself.

Dressed again as a farmer from the outskirts of the city, Patrick waited to be brought to the Minister's office. When he was finally brought in, Minister Frollo was already sitting behind his desk, his hands folded on the tabletop surface, his back stick straight against his chair. Patrick plopped himself unceremoniously in front of the Minister and waited to be addressed. He could tell by the way that Frollo's lip curled in distaste that he had highly offended the man and Patrick just did not care at this point.

"Welcome back to my office, Monsieur…"

"Foighne. No monsieur."

"Ah. Indeed."

Frollo was being to get frustrated with the assassin's lack of a last name or respectful title. Taking in a deep breath, Frollo got up and locked the singular door to his office. Turning back to Foighne, he paused to study the man from behind. Something had changed since the two had last spoken and the Minister was worried that this could affect their agreement.

"I trust things are going well between you and your partner," Frollo stated quietly, returning to his desk. Looking up, he noted a hard glare in the man's eyes.

"Yes," Patrick paused. "Redima is starting today on her undercover work."

"That is excellent."

Claude smiled pleasantly and relaxed into his chair. "Are you able to reveal what the details are of your plan?"

"We usually do not meet with our employers again after setting up the target, Minister; however, your letter to me sounded quite urgent." Patrick looked up at the Minister whose smile had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. "Next time, do not send a low-level soldier out to find me. I nearly killed the man for his foolishness."

The Minister frowned. Who was this man to tell him what to do? "I shall keep that in mind."

"The details of the betrayal are not that important," Patrick looked up at Frollo, an eyebrow quirked. "But, if you want them, I could divulge a certain amount of unimportant information for a small amount of money."

"You dare to ask me for more money?"

Minister Frollo was beside himself in rage. Had he not treated them with more respect than they deserved? Had he not already promised them an absurd amount for an easy target? As he stood, body shaking in indignation, Patrick raised his hand calmly before responding.

"You must understand, Minister. What you ask is outside of our protocol. I need some… incentive, if you will… to reveal such information.

Seething, Claude returned to his desk, sitting down rigidly and opening a side drawer with more force than he had intended, noting that slight twitch in the assassin's eye at the loud clatter. Taking out a small change purse, the Minister threw the velvet bag at the infuriating redhead in front of him. Catch the purse deftly in his fingers, Patrick weighed the amount in his hand before pocketing it.

"Redima is disguising herself as a gypsy…"

Frollo interrupted Patrick here, frustrated. "Information you have already told me."

Frollo was growing impatient and he could tell by the silent glare coming from Patrick that his patience was also close to its end.

"Indeed, Minister. However, I will tell you a bit more if you would not interrupt me." Patrick waited and when the Minister waved a hand, he continued. "She will remain in this guise for the remainder of our time here. Treat her as you would any of the others. Her cart is set up in the plaza near the Pont des Arts. It is an artist's cart, selling paintings, sculptures, things of that nature. She will, as previously decided, carry out a betrayal as well as what you paying for."

Patrick stopped talking, played with his goatee for a moment and then stood up.

"If there is anything else I feel like is necessary for you to know, Minister, I will of course inform you. If you wish for me to contact you, have your captain wear this bracelet." Walking over, Patrick placed a simple bracelet on the Minister's desk. It was a silver chain with a small red cross hanging from it. "I will come in as soon as I possibly can to answer whatever questions you may have. May I leave?"

Patrick was itching to leave, something in the back of his mind telling him that he should not be here, starting to think that he should have just ignored the message from the soldier . Whether or not the Minister agreed to release him, he would walk out the door, agreement or not. The more time spent in this city, the more Patrick was growing nervous. As his jaw began to tense, waiting for a response from the Minister, Claude waved him off in dismissal. Nodding curtly, Patrick left, anxiety spreading throughout his entire body. He needed to see Jeta.

As Claude watched the tense Irishman leave, the wheels began to turn in his shrewd mind. The moment the door was closed, he turned to the large window behind his desk and looked to the Pont des Arts. The man was not lying as he could clearly see a brightly painted cart set up near the bridge and a petite young woman moving about. He also noted with disgust that there was a growing crowd of Parisians gathering around the site. Several minutes later there was a short knock at his door.

"Enter."

Not bothering to turn around, Frollo listened as Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers entered his office, closing the door with an intrusive bang before walking towards the desk, pausing a few feet away in his military position of attention. Claude let the captain sweat a few more minutes, letting him go over in his mind why he could have been called before the Minister. Slowly, he turned to face Phoebus who was clearly nervous about the meeting.

"Minister Frollo."

Phoebus bowed in respect and waited for the Minister to acknowledge him.

"Captain de Chateaupers." Claude paused and watched as the captain returned to his original position of attention. With a smile, the Minister gestured for the other man to join him at the window. "Come and look at this, Captain."

"Certainly, sir."

Making his way over, Phoebus paused at the window, glancing at the Minister before turning to look out at Paris. He scanned the scene for anything out of the usual, but nothing seemed to pop out. A few more tense moments passed before Phoebus dared to say another word.

"Minister, may I ask what we are looking at?"

A hand coming up to massage the bridge of his nose, Claude answered. "Look at the Pont des Arts. What do you see, Captain?"

Turning back to the window, Phoebus searched the city for the bridge the Minister had pointed out. When he found it, Phoebus responded.

"A gypsy cart, sir." Phoebus stopped but continued at the glare coming from the Minister. "I can't see what wares they are selling, but their business appears to be doing good as there is a crowd forming. I believe it is a female gypsy, sir." Pausing again, Phoebus leaned in closer to the glass and squinted. "Is that the… outsider… we hired, sir?"

"Very good, Captain. I want you to watch her."

"Sir?"

Phoebus was confused. The Minister had hired these assassins to kill the gypsy king and his son yet if that was the woman, Redima, what was she doing dressed up like one? There was something the Minister was not telling him and Phoebus was growing more and more weary of where this was headed.

"These people are not to be trusted. They live without morals and only care who pays them the most. This female, I want you to watch her and treat her as you would any of the other gypsy vermin. No special treatment."

"Yes, sir." Phoebus paused again before turning to the Minister. "May I ask a question, Minister?"

Claude waved a hand, giving him permission to speak.

"If you hired this woman, why is she dressed like a gypsy?"

Claude looked away from the mirror and to the captain, a sadistic smile on his face. "Do not worry yourself with the details, Captain, but know that she does this out of my orders."

Nodding, Phoebus turned his gaze back to the young woman who was now bartering with a Parisian male, what appeared to be a painted pot in her hand.

"Just remember, Captain, no special treatment."

* * *

**Author's Note:** And so ends Chapter Six. I promise that there will be some Clopin in the upcoming chapter as well as a bit more excitement. Please, if you like this story, review. I love to hear that others are enjoying this as much as I'm enjoying writing it. ) 

Monsieur (French): respectful title for a man, regardless of marital status  
Mademoiselle (French): title for an unmarried woman  
Iníon (Irish): daughter  
Athair (Irish): father  
Foighne (Irish): patience  
Redima (Spanish): redeem


	7. Obtenir pour vous savoir

**Chapter Seven**

**Obtenir Pour Vous Savoir**

**(Getting to Know You)**

* * *

** Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the characters/items/other stuff from Hunchback of Notre Dame. They belong to Victor Hugo (the original mastermind whom I strongly recommend reading as the original is absolutely brilliant and puts Disney to shame) and Disney (as most of the characterization is based on this version). I only use them for my own pleasure in writing, but I don't make a dime out of it, so please don't sue. All original characters are my own creation. 

**Author's Note**: Just as a note to anyone reading this, this story takes place twelve years before the events of the Disney movie, whose storyline this fan fiction follows. Just wanted to leave that as a little note. Additional note is that the language of the Roma will be in this chapter and future chapters. I am by no means an expert, but I did try to do some research and look for phrases and such that would be used. So, yeah, I do try to have some sort of realism in my stories. Anyways, if you like this fan fiction, please please please review. I would love to hear that other people are enjoying this. Onto the story...

* * *

It was a brilliant Sunday morning and Clopin was enjoying his only day off. Not that he wanted to be away from his puppet cart, but the majority of his customers were fulfilling their holy obligations, leaving him without an audience. On this particular Sunday morning, as he kicked a few pebbles along the cobblestone streets of Paris, Clopin was highly put out. His father had yet again brought up the subject of marriage, this time in front of his grandmother, who became teary eyed that he may not provide her with a great grandchild before she passed. Just thinking about the unfortunate argument that followed brought a vile taste to his mouth. Clopin would surely have to apologize later for his fiery temper and storming out of the Cour des Miracles, but right now, he simply wanted to get away. 

As he trudged through the city towards his cart, thinking he might freshen up a few of his puppets, a small child found its way entangled in his long legs, wrapping its arms around them. Looking down, Clopin could not help but laugh at the girl who had followed him from their home.

"Clopin!" Puppet popped out of thin air, causing the young child to smile and her vibrant green eyes to light up. "We have a companion!"

"Que?" Looking down as if for the first time, Clopin opened his eyes wide in surprise and jumped a bit, causing the little girl to laugh more. "Indeed we do, Puppet. It is our dear friend, Esmeralda." Puppet responded by nodding his little wooden head.

Clopin kneeled down so he was face-to-face with the young girl. He noted that Esmeralda's long ebony tresses were curled up and pulled back with a clean pink scarf while her clothing looked impeccable, no holes in the crisp white shirt or dirt on the hem of her purple skirt. Hugging the girl tightly, Puppet popped back up to kiss her on her nose.

"What are you doing out today, ma fille douce? Surely, in such a nice dress, Rupa didn't let you leave the Court?"

Esmeralda's cheeks instantly reddened and her eyes lowered to the street, a foot coming out to shuffle in front of her. Clopin knew that she had followed him out, but now knew that her guardian, a pleasant woman named Rupa, was probably going crazy in the Cour des Miracles looking for the ever elusive child.

"Non. Rupa doesn't know I'm here." Blushing, as if it was possible, even more, Esmeralda paused and Clopin waited. Finally, she continued. "I heard you were visiting the new Romni. I wanted to meet her too."

Puppet again appeared this time posing a question on Clopin's mind. "A new woman in town? And a Romni, you say?"

Clopin pulled on his goatee, contemplating this new information. "I have not heard of this. Will you show me, Esmeralda?"

"Show us, Esmeralda, show us!" Puppet had reappeared and was tugging on Esmerald'a sleeve excitedly. Esmeralda was giggling again. Reaching over, Clopin bopped the little puppet over the head with a short wooden stick, whispering "Manners!", only causing Esmeralda to laugh some more. "Please, Mademoiselle Esmeralda, will you show us?"

"Oui!"

Grabbing Clopin's free hand, Esmeralda began to hurry down the cobblestone streets, knocking through many Parisians who looked quite harassed at being shoved aside by two gypsies. Thankfully, there were no guards about this morning as they surely would have been arrested for the ruckus they were causing. Esmeralda did not slow down until they were approaching the Pont des Arts. Clopin was grateful for this as the crowds had thicken considerably, many of the shops opening now that Mass had ended a few hours ago, people of every kind wandering here and there to get some last minute item for their Sunday lunches. Slowing down, Esmeralda began to pick her way carefully through a crowd surrounding a small cart.

When Esmeralda finally stopped, she was out of breath and looking up at Clopin excitedly. The cart, painted in stripes of bright pink and green, was fairly small. However, the side facing them had two large doors built in that swung open to allow the inside to be seen. Shelves were built into the inside wall of the cart where beautiful vases, decorated with everything from Chinese dragons to water lilies, and other delicate sculptures were standing. Above the opening of the cart, several wind chimes were hung and glistening in the breezeless day. On the insides of the open doors were various paintings while a canvas was setup outside where a petite woman was standing with her back to the pair.

"See, Clopin, I told you there was a Romni here."

"And so you did."

The woman did not see the pair and went about her painting while the pedestrians milled around her. Clopin and Esmeralda tried to maneuver around the many people to gain a better view. Just as Clopin had reached a spot where he would be able to make out the newcomer's face, she moved aside to help a rather large, blonde-haired woman who was holding a painted vase in her hands. Sighing in frustration, Clopin waited while the two bartered. He noted that while the customer was becoming slightly agitated with the intense negotiations, the new woman remained calm. When their transaction was completed, Clopin approached.

"Droboy tume Romale."

Looking up, the woman tossed her long ebony hair, which was French braided, over her shoulder and held out a hand. "Nais tuke."

Smiling, Clopin accepted her hand and shook it. As he did, he was able to get a good look at her. While the majority of her hair was twisted back into a braid, she also had let her bangs sweep down across her forehead, almost covering her right eye. A gold hoop was in one of her ears while several bangles hung from her arm. She was wearing a long green striped skirt that stopped a few inches above her ankles which was paired with a long sleeved, snug beige shirt and a black corset. Her oval face was not unattractive – almond-shaped hazel eyes, a tiny nose, and pale pink lips – and her body was curved, just not as much as he usually preferred his women. Wiping his mind of such thoughts, he returned his attention back to the woman, who now wore a confused expression, one eyebrow quirked.

"My name is Clopin Trouillefou. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"You as well." Releasing Clopin's hand, she reached up to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. "I am Nadja Sherred."

"A beautiful name for a beautiful woman."

A blush crept slowly up Nadja's face before she responded. "Quite the flatterer, Señor Trouillefou."

"Please, just Clopin." Before he could say another word, Esmeralda had returned from her adventures of exploring the wares and pushed her way in between the two, her little hands balled up into fists and placed on her hips.

"You didn't wait for me, Clopin!"

Leaning down and placing his hands upon his knees, Clopin frowned. "My apologies."

"Oui! We are sorry!" Puppet had yet again appeared. For a moment, it looked as if Esmeralda was going to throw a tantrum. Instead, she threw her arms around the older boy's neck.

"You are forgiven."

Smiling up at Nadja, Clopin worded an apology for the young girl's behavior. Nadja simply waved it aside, returning the smile.

Standing back up, Clopin twirled Esmeralda around to face Nadja, holding her by her shoulders. "Let me introduce you to Nadja Sherred."

Esmeralda curtsied. "I'm Esmeralda." Nadja returned the curtsey, amused by the girl's extremely happy disposition.

"I saw you were looking at the glass wind chime. Would you like me to take it down so you can get a better look?"

Esmeralda looked up at Clopin for permission and he nodded. Walking over, Nadja took a small stepping stool from beneath her cart and reached up to retrieve the wind chime, the stool wobbling beneath her lithe frame. Clopin feared she was going to snap her neck, but she gracefully stepped down, holding the delicate wind chime, nudging the stool back beneath the cart. Returning to the pair, she kneeled down and handed the object to the young girl.

"Now, you must be careful. It is made of glass and I wouldn't want you to cut yourself."

"I will be careful, Mademoiselle Sherred, I promise."

Chuckling, Nadja nodded her head. "Oh! One more thing."

"Oui?"

"Just call me Nadja. We are friends, no?"

Esmeralda smiled and hugged the older woman, being careful to not damage the wind chime. Going to stand out a sunny spot near the cart, Esmeralda's attention returned to the wind chime, whose glass was glittering many different colors on the pavement. Standing back up, Nadja smiled shyly at Clopin.

"She's precious."

"She's been particularly well behaved today. Usually, she's a ball of energy and destroying nearly everything in sight."

Nadja brought a hand to her mouth and giggled, not wanting to offend Clopin or the young girl. "I'm sure she's sweet, no matter what."

"Indeed."

The two stood in silence, watching Esmeralda as she played with her newest toy. The crowd had dispersed for the most part as the bells of Notre Dame declared it noon a few moments ago. Turning back to Nadja, who had a slight smile on her face, he inquired about something that had just run through his mind.

"If you don't mind, may I ask where you traveled from?"

Nadja raised an eyebrow, a habit she clearly had Clopin noted, and paused to think about her answer.

"I am originally from Spain, but I have not been there in many years. I have been traveling, selling my art work. My feet took me here, to Paris. Not a usual stop for me."

"You came by yourself?"

"Sí."

Clopin nodded, returning his attention back to Esmeralda, silence filling the air yet again. Nadja began to twist the end of her braid, chewing thoughtfully at her lip. Clopin watched this from the corner of his eye, fascinated by her facial expression.

"May I ask what you do for a living, Se…" Nadja paused to fix her mistake. "…Clopin."

"I am a puppeteer and storyteller. My cart is setup a few plazas over from Notre Dame."

Nadja smiled wistfully, clearly entertaining a very private thought before her eyes cleared and connected with Clopin's. "I would love to see you perform. I have not seen a puppet show since I was very little."

"Cela est une tragédie!" Clopin clapped his hands onto his face, a horrified look in his wide eyes, every bone in his body tense. "You must come tomorrow!"

Giggling, Nadja shook her head, amused by the man's actions. It seemed everything was over exaggerated, like one big show. "I will make time, I promise."

"Ah! I have your word. Lovely!"

Clopin bounced on the balls of his feet, his features pleasant once more upon her declaration. Nadja continued to shake her head before returning her attention back to Esmeralda. The seven-year-old seemed to sense their gaze and turned to smile at the couple, standing up to make her way back to them.

"Clopin!" Clopin jumped in pretend fright as if his attention had not just been on her. Esmeralda frowned and tapped her foot impatiently, knowing full well he was playing around. "I want to go back. I am hungry."

Clopin chuckled. "Fine, fine." Here he threw his hands up in defeat. "To home we go."

Esmeralda turned to Nadja, handing her the wind chime. With a quirked eyebrow, Nadja took the object, surprised the girl would not want it. At the sad look on the young child's face, Nadja left for a moment to grab some paper, which she wrapped the wind chime in, and handed it back to Esmeralda.

"Consider it a gift from a new friend."

"Oh!" Esmeralda took the package delicately, not wanting to crush the pretty glass inside. "Merci!"

Esmeralda threw her body around the older woman's legs, hugging with all of her might, but still careful not to break her newest possession. Nadja kneeled down and returned the gesture. Standing back up, Clopin took her hand and kissed her knuckles lightly, pleased with the blush that crept back up into her cheeks.

"Au revoir, mademoiselle."

Nadja came back to her senses as the pair walked away, waving when Esmeralda turned around to get one last look. As they rounded the corner and left her sight, Nadja leaned against her cart, a sadistic smile slowly crossing her face. Tucking a stand of hair beneath her ear, Nadja turned to close up her shop, content with the day's events.

From a dark side alley, Patrick frowned, still not pleased with the situation at hand. He watched as Jeta pushed her cart into another alley, the shadows helping to hide it, hoping to protect it both from damage and soldiers. Taking a final look around, Jeta entered the cart herself, closing and locking the door behind her. Shaking his head, Patrick turned to make his way back to the safe house, several thoughts running through his mind.

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**Author's Note:** One of the shorter chapters, but still necessary. Also, there's a lot of different phrases in several languages in this chapter – French, Romani, and Spanish. Much of it is easy to understand and guess the meaning, but if it is too much, please let me know. Yay! for Clopin in this chapter and I promise there is more to come. Promise. Again, if you like, review. I love to get some love. 

Que? (French): What?  
Ma fille douce (French): My sweet girl  
Oui (French): Yes  
Non (French): No  
Romni (Romani): A female  
Mademoiselle (French): title for an unmarried woman  
Droboy tume Romale (Romani): A traditional Romani greeting  
Nais tuke (Romani): Thank you (response to above greeting)\  
Señor (Spanish): Mister  
Sí (Spanish): Yes  
Cela est une tragédie! (French): That is a tragedy!  
Merci (French): Thank you  
Au revoir (French): Good bye


	8. Elever les rideaux

**Chapter Eight**

**Elever Les Rideaux**

**(Raise the Curtains)**

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**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the characters/items/other stuff from Hunchback of Notre Dame. They belong to Victor Hugo (the original mastermind whom I strongly recommend reading as the original is absolutely brilliant and puts Disney to shame) and Disney (as most of the characterization is based on this version because, let's face it, Disney rocks). I only use them for my own pleasure in writing, but I don't make a dime out of it, so please don't sue. All original characters are my own creation. 

**Author's Note**: Just want to say hello to all the lurkers out there who are reading this. I hope you are enjoying reading this as much as I enjoy writing this. Also, I hope everyone had a very very happy and filling Thanksgiving, to those who celebrate it. D Enjoy the chapter!

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Clopin was pleasantly surprised the following morning when he noticed a very confused gypsy girl wandering aimlessly into the plaza where his cart was setup. He smiled behind his violet mask, the bells on his yellow cowl jingling when he moved from the inside of his cart to the doorway, his eyes still following the woman. The young lady walked from stall to stall, obviously curious about all of the different wares for sale. As she approached one particular stall, whose owner was known for his prejudice towards the Romani population, Clopin decided he should save her from an early morning harassment and headache. 

"Nadja!"

At the sound of her name, Nadja's head shot up and her eyes began to scan the crowd, attempting to find the owner of the voice. Again Clopin called her name, a black gloved hand going up, waving so she could see him. Finally, her eyes connected with his and she waved back, moving through the crowd and across the plaza to him. Pushing through the final group of Parisians, glares coming from all directions as she shoved by, Nadja greeted Clopin with a giant toothy smile on her face.

"Buenos días, Clopin!"

"Merci and bonjour to you, mademoiselle."

Clopin stepped down from the doorway of his cart and picked up her hand, gently kissing her knuckles, pleased with the blush that crept up her face, setting her cheeks aflame. Nadja lowered her gaze in embarrassment until her blush was gone and Clopin allowed her a moment to compose herself, trying to keep a very satisfied smirk from his features, before clearing his throat. Clopin kept his features pleasant as she raised her gaze, a tentative smile on her lips.

"I'm happy to see you, Nadja. I was worried you wouldn't come."

Nadja giggled, shaking her head, her ebony hair, which Clopin noted was down this morning, shaking with her. "I promised to come watch you today. I am no liar, señor. Now the question becomes, are you going to put on a good enough show to entertain me?"

Clopin's hand grasped his chest, balling the fabric from his tunic into his fist, his eyes wide. "I'm insulted mademoiselle! I will have you know that I am the greatest storyteller in all of Paris, in all of France. Non! The world."

Nadja again giggled, her eyes lighting up in amusement. "You shall have to prove it to me, señor. I am quite the skeptic."

"Indeed." Clopin looked highly put out, his shoulders sagging, even his colorful costume looked dull. Suddenly Puppet made an appearance.

"She wants to see me! Not you, you long-nosed buffoon." Puppet promptly placed a kiss on Nadja's cheek, causing her to laugh even more.

"Sí! That is exactly it. I simply want more Puppet."

"More Puppet she says! More Puppet!" Clopin knocked his little friend on the hand with a wooden stick that appeared as quickly as the puppet had. "Stealing my customers, are you? I'll teach you."

"Save me, Mademoiselle Nadja! Save me!"

Nadja could not save Puppet more than she could keep herself standing upright as she was nearly doubled over in peals of laughter, grasping her sides. "After the performance, Puppet. I must be entertained first and so must the children behind me."

Clopin looked over her shoulder and Nadja was right as he counted six children waiting patiently behind her, not including their mothers who were just as anxious for the gypsy storyteller to perform as their offspring.

"Mon Dieu! You have distracted me with your striking beauty…" Clopin grinned at the disbelieving look on Nadja's face as she straightened herself out, smoothing down her skirt. "…but I must return to my audience. Until after the show, mon cher."

With a sweep of his hat and a deep bow, Clopin bounded away, cart wheeling through the spectators before returning to his cart. A few seconds later, his beaming face peeked over the edge of the window as if they could not see his vibrant purple hat with gold feather before his eyes finally crossed the threshold of the windowsill, the children cheering wildly for their favorite storyteller and the mothers waving at their favorite gypsy man.

"Bonjour! Bonjour!" Clopin had popped up from the window of his cart and was waving and bowing in an almost ridiculous manner to the audience. Just as suddenly as Clopin had appeared, Puppet popped up from underneath his elbow. All of the children began to cheer as Puppet also began to wave to the crowd, blowing kisses. When Clopin acknowledged the small wooden puppet's actions, he quickly rapped him on the head with that mysterious little stick and turned his attention back to the children as Puppet rubbed his sore head.

"What do you think we shall perform today, Puppet?" Clopin leaned on his elbow and rested his head on his hand, a thoughtful look on his face. Nadja smiled, a laugh on her lips as their eyes made contact.

"I do not know, Monsieur Conteur." Puppet scratched his chin, Clopin mimicking his tiny counterpart. All of the children giggled at this. "Perhaps we should ask a member of the audience? Surely one of them knows a story."

As soon as that suggestion was posed to the audience, every child's hand raised in the air, waving eagerly and trying to get Clopin's attention. His eyes had not left Nadja and her cheeks reddened as she attempted to scoot behind the only man in the crowd, a robust big-bellied father, as she knew exactly what Clopin was about to do.

"Let's ask…" Puppet also began to scan the audience before pointing directly at Nadja. "Her!"

"Oui!" Clopin waved Nadja over, the pot-bellied gentleman turning around, clapping his hands once, and then gently pushing her over towards the cart. "A suggestion, belle mademoiselle?"

Clopin grinned as the blush darkened on Nadja's cheeks, the poor young girl looking around nervously, the other French peasants smiling pleasantly and urging her to choose a story, the children all shouting out their favorites. Suddenly, a thought popped into Nadja's head and a sly smile appeared, Clopin's own smile faltering for just the tiniest of seconds.

"Surely, such a fine storyteller as yourself, knows the story of Lon Po Po." Nadja crossed her arms, a daring challenge in her eyes. She had thought she caught Clopin, not expecting him to know the Chinese tale, and by the slight dulling of his eyes, she knew she had caught him. Her grin widened until he raised a hand to silence the audience.

"Oh ho! Indeed I do, mademoiselle. An interesting choice." Clopin raised an eyebrow at Nadja, who merely shrugged, before he put a highly apologetic smile his face, turning to the children. "Un moment, s'il vous plaît."

Clopin ducked quickly behind the windowsill, Puppet staying up momentarily to blow some more kisses. A sharp rap to his head, however, sent the little puppet into the cart as well. Only a few seconds later, the scene in the background changed – a quaint little hut on top of a hill – all painted in dark, dull colors appearing before the crowd.

And so Clopin began his tale of three sisters and a deceiving wolf who pretended to be their grandmother, or Lon Po Po, while their mother went to visit their real grandmother. Every child was expressing their nervousness and fear for the sisters as they gasped and yelled for the sisters to be careful. Clopin watched the expressions play across Nadja's face as he reenacted the tale with his puppets. He could see the wonderment and excitement in her eyes even though she smiled politely throughout the entire thing, applauding with the rest of the audience when Clopin was done.

As the children ran from their mothers, whom they asked for a few coins from, back to the storyteller, dropping the change into a little bucket hanging from the side of the window, Clopin smiled and greeted each one by name. He seemed to get along quite well with all the children who told him that they would be back in the afternoon for his next show, Clopin grinning like he was the star of the show, which he was. Even still, Nadja noted the quick look of disgust at the few older audience members who simply left without a word of gratitude or tip for the young gypsy man. Nadja waited patiently at the end of the line, smiling pleasantly at all the cheerful children who ran back to their parent, still waving at Clopin. Before she knew it, the space in front of the cart was clear besides her. Looking up, she saw the triumphant grin on Clopin's face, an expectant look in his eyes.

"Terrible. The worst story I have ever heard. You completely and totally butchered it." Nadja made a disgusted face and stuck out her tongue.

Clopin hopped over the windowsill and landed gracefully in front of her, his arms crossing his chest and a foot tapping impatiently. "You're a liar, mademoiselle."

Nadja laughed, a smile gracing Clopin's lips at her merriment. "Yes, yes I am. It was absolutely wonderful. Bravo!"

Clopin bowed several times and began to thank various people in the square including the baker and the smelly fisherman nearby. Nadja only shook her head, still highly amused by Clopin's antics. His self praise was suddenly interrupted by Puppet.

"Did you see me, mademoiselle?!" Puppet began to tug at her sleeve, Clopin telling him to mind his manners. "Was I not also amazing?"

"You were the best part of the show, Puppet!" Nadja leaned down and gave Puppet a quick kiss on his cheek. Puppet's arms fluttered for a moment before one of his little hands reached up to his cheek where she pecked him.

Puppet turned to Clopin who had a scandalized look on his face, clearly upset at the attention Puppet was getting over him. "See, I told you she was only here for me."

"Indeed, you little scoundrel."

Clopin replaced Puppet back into his tunic, where he put it was something Nadja could not figure out as the costume was so form fitting yet there was no obvious bump where the little puppet was hidden. At Nadja's quirked eyebrow, Clopin merely shrugged as if reading her mind. "That, mademoiselle, is a secret I will never tell."

Nadja merely nodded, her feet beginning to shuffle as she tried to think of something to say. She could feel Clopin's gaze on her and she began to quickly go through her options, disregarding every thought that popped into her mind as too lame or boring. When the silence became too unbearable, she blurted out the first thing that presented itself. "Are you hungry?"

Clopin paused before answering, just long enough that Nadja began to ramble. "I mean, if you are, we could, perhaps, go eat something. Not like a couple or anything. Like friends. But, I would understand if you are busy. I mean, if you do not want to, that would be fine as well. I am rambling."

Nadja sighed and hung her head, shaking it and muttering to herself about how stupid she must sound, one hand coming up to smack itself on her forehead. Clopin chuckled, causing Nadja to look up at him.

"I would be honored to join you for lunch." Clopin offered his arm to her. Nadja smiled and placed her hand on it, glad for his acceptance of her offer. "Do you have anywhere in mind?"

"No. I did not think that far ahead yet. As if you could not tell."

Nadja made a face, her lips squishing together and quirking to one side of her face while her nose crinkled. This, by far, was the funniest face Clopin had ever seen a person make and held in a snort, not wanting to offend the poor girl who was trying so hard to make friends in a new town.

"There's a pub a few blocks away. They've got the best pecan pie in all Paris."

"Is that so?" Nadja thought for a moment. "I shall have to see if I can eat a piece after my meal."

"Psh! You have to have some pie. What kind of person doesn't like pie?"

Nadja placed her hands on her hip, sticking her tongue out briefly. "I never said I did not like pie, but pie is not a lunch."

"I don't know where you come from, but pie sounds like the best lunch there is."

The pair felt back into silence after this, nothing unpleasant and much more comfortable than before, a cheerful smile still on Nadja's face from Clopin's comment. Clopin took the opportunity to study Nadja more careful now that he was closer to her than yesterday and her attention was distracted by a few of the storefronts they passed on their way to the restaurant. While she had blushed several times in his presence and had a few nervous habits, Nadja had a sharp enough tongue and wit to match even his. Even now, while her hands were folded delicately behind her back with her eyes lowered, she held herself upright, not too stiff but confident, an air of self-assurance and pride surrounding her. The woman was a walking contradiction of gentle politeness and certain toughness. If anything, Nadja intrigued him far more than many of the people he met and he was interested in finding out more about her before the day had ended. After a few moments, the pair arrived at Le Baiser Salé, a pub and restaurant only a few blocks away from where Clopin performed every day. It was a bit nicer than Le Bourreau, having a much quieter atmosphere, but still friendly to all sorts of paying patrons. Nadja quirked an eyebrow at Clopin's choice, her eyes looking up at the street sign.

"Le Baiser Salé? That means The Salty Kiss in your native French, no?"

Clopin chuckled, surprised that she had bothered to read the name and impressed by the fact that she could even read to begin with, something he had never been taught. Yet another thing that he began to think about. "Yes, that is what it means."

"I hope you do not think I am some sort of easy woman, señor."

"Anything but, mademoiselle." Clopin smiled, amused by how quick she picked up on the name, a thoughtful look in his eyes as one hand came up to stroke his goatee. "I simply wanted to offer you a charming lunch in one of the best places in the city since you are new here. This is your first time in Paris, isn't it?"

"Not the first time, but my most recent. It has been over a decade since I last came here." A sad smile passed over Nadja's face, her eyes lowering and glancing away, not wanting Clopin to see the glistening wetness that had begun to form in them. She quickly wiped her eyes and shook her hair out, a pleasant smile back on her face. "I do not believe this pub was here when I was."

"Non. It is fairly new." It was painfully obvious to Clopin that Nadja did not want to talk about the last time she was in Paris and he decided to get her mind off the subject. Clopin opened the door for Nadja, letting her pass through first, her saying thank you as she walked in. Once they were seated, Clopin picked up the conversation again. "The owners only moved here a few years ago. They're from England. Ever been there in your journeys?"

"Sí. A number of times actually. Not one of my favorite places to travel to. I am not inclined to the rainy weather they seem to have year round." At Clopin's questioning look, Nadja pointed to her hair which fell in soft waves down past the swell of her back, nearly to her knees. "Frizzes the hair."

"Ah! I see. That's a perfectly reasonable reason." Nadja nodded, giggling at Clopin's statement.

"A perfectly reasonable reason." The waitress, a pretty young girl with dirty blonde hair pulled into braided pigtails, took their orders. When she walked away, Clopin posed a question that had been on his mind since they left his cart.

"I am assuming that it is safe to assume that you have been at least somewhere near the Orient." Nadja quirked an eyebrow at his statement, nodding her head for him to continue. "Lon Po Po. It's a Chinese tale, similar in concept to our Little Red Riding Hood. Where did you hear it if not in the Orient?"

"I did hear it in the Orient; though, that was not the first time. My parents told it to me when we journeyed across Asia. It was one of my favorites growing up. And you? Where did you hear the story?"

"A Chinese gambler I met at a bar."

"Interesting." Nadja quirked an eyebrow at this. "Care to tell me how between you two drinking and gambling you learned Chinese folk lore."

"You are quite the skeptic."

"I warned you."

"Indeed you did." Clopin paused, leaning back into his chair, making himself comfortable. "We were both at a table, playing cards and drinking. And with drinking comes stories. As the night went on, we began to tell each other about ourselves. I told him I was a local storyteller. He taught me a few Chinese stories. It was a fair tradeoff until I swindled him out of all of his money and I found his mug propelled towards my face at an alarming speed."

"And that is why I do not gamble."

Clopin grinned, not picturing the young girl across from him gambling, let alone being in a shady pub drinking. At that moment, the waitress arrived with their meals. Nadja had simply asked for a bowl of their onion soup and some bread while Clopin, true to his word, ordered a slice of pecan pie and a mug of beer. Nadja had shaken her head when he had done this and he commented on how his mother would have his head if she saw what he was eating, causing Nadja to laugh.

"Enjoying your pie?"

Clopin looked up from his plate from which he had previously been shoveling large amounts of the pie into his mouth. Even now, an enormous amount of the dessert was on his spoon, which had stopped merely an inch away from his mouth that a bit of the still un-chewed crust was sticking out from. He nodded eagerly before returning to feasting on his dessert, Nadja watching with much interest. Before she had even finished a quarter of her soup, Clopin had asked the waitress for another slice of the pecan pie and some baked chicken. Both were promptly brought out and consumed at an extraordinary speed, leaving Nadja feeling like she should eat faster when Clopin was done and she still had some left in her bowl.

"You're still eating?" Clopin leaned back into his chair, a hand coming up to rub his very full belly.

"I do not shovel my food into my mouth so quickly that I cannot taste it before swallowing." Nadja stuck out her tongue. "Besides, I am actually enjoying my meal."

"Hmph! I enjoyed my meal. It was just so tasty I had to eat more of it as fast as I could."

Nadja giggled and finished the last of her soup, dabbing her lips with a napkin, Clopin watching with fascination. "What?"

"Nothing."

Nadja quirked an eyebrow and Clopin waved it aside. She continued to look at him, confusion clearly defined in her eyes before shrugging it off. After paying the bill, which Clopin refused to let Nadja help with, the girl's lips going thin and pouty at this, the pair left the pub, both pleasantly full and content. They walked in companionable silence down the street back towards Clopin's cart. When they reached the outrageously painted wagon, Clopin leaned against its side, resting for a moment, Nadja looking up with interest at the top of Notre Dame that could just barely been seen above the rooftops. Just then, the bells rang out that it was one in the afternoon.

"I should return to my own cart." Nadja changed her glance from the cathedral began to Clopin who had taken Puppet back out.

"But mademoiselle, don't you want to stay for the next performance?"

"I would love to Puppet, but I must make a living as well." Nadja leaned down and placed a quick kiss on Puppet's cheek, causing the sad puppet to perk up a bit more. Turning her attention to Clopin, she tried her best to gauge whether to shake his hand or hug him. He made the choice easy for her by gently kissing her knuckles before sweeping her up into a friendly hug.

"I had a wonderful lunch, mademoiselle."

"As did I." Nadja smiled pleasantly, pausing for a moment. "Am I going to see you tomorrow?"

"Depends. You coming to my show?"

Nadja shuffled her foot on the ground, kicking a small pebble between Clopin's legs, a small "Oops!" passing her lips before she could stop it. Clopin chuckled and Nadja pretended as if nothing had happened, her feet now perfectly still.

"It depends. I would love to, but I doubt I am going to sell anything today which means I may not be able to come."

Her face crinkled itself, her nose twitching to one side as she thought. Clopin could not stop the little laugh from escaping this time and Nadja merely stuck out her tongue at him.

"Perhaps, if I can, I'll stop by your cart."

"And I will come too!"

Nadja giggled, patting Puppet on the head. "That would be lovely. And perhaps I will treat you to lunch."

"Non!" Clopin shook his head, waving aside her suggestion with his hand. "How ungentlemanly would that be of me? I must refuse."

"Then perhaps a small homemade lunch? Sandwiches. Some cheese. A bottle of wine."

"That, mademoiselle, sounds perfect. Tomorrow at your cart, say around noon. Oui?"

"Sí. Perfect."

Clopin bowed once more and Nadja laughed as she walked away, Puppet once more blowing kisses and exclaiming his undying love for the beautiful lady, earning himself a whack from Clopin. Nadja waved once more at the pair before they left her sight, a genuine smile on her lips.**  
**

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**Author's Note:** So, this chapter wasn't originally planned to be this long or heck, even planned this way. It, honestly, was planned to be a fairly short chapter with a bit of a different scene, but it just kinda came out this way when I was typing it and who am I to go against what my brain and imagination clearly wants me to do. Turned out to be the longest chapter ever. Hopefully it wasn't too long and that you enjoyed it. D

Buenos días (Spanish): Good  
Merci (French): Thank you  
Bonjour (French): Good morning  
Mademoiselle (French): title for a young girl or unmarried woman  
Señor (Spanish): mister  
Non (French): No  
Sí (Spanish): Yes  
Mon Dieu (French): My God  
Mon cher (French): my dear  
Conteur (French): Storyteller  
Oui (French): Yes  
Belle (French): beautiful  
Un moment, s'il vous plaît (French): "A moment, please."  
Le Baiser Salé (French): The Salty Kiss  
Le Bourreau (French): The Hangman


	9. Les yeux de doe et les dents de serpent

**Chapter Nine**

**Les Yeux de Doe et Les Dents de Serpent**

**(Doe Eyes and Serpent Teeth)**

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**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the characters/items/other stuff from Hunchback of Notre Dame. They belong to Victor Hugo (the original mastermind whom I strongly recommend reading as the original is absolutely brilliant and puts Disney to shame) and Disney (as most of the characterization is based on this version because, let's face it, Disney rocks). I only use them for my own pleasure in writing, but I don't make a dime out of it, so please don't sue. All original characters are my own creation. 

**Author's Note**: Sorry for the really long delay between this chapter and the last. I had finals at school as well as getting my wisdom teeth pulled, which left me in quite the funk for the last few days. Anyways, I got numerous sweet reviews. D I don't usually do this but…

**Sweet Valentine**: Thank you for the nomination in that C2. I really appreciate it. I am also so grateful that you review after the chapters because you are the only one, up until bubblymuggle4, and it truly makes my day when I see a review from you. Thank you!  
**bubblymuggle4**: Thank you so much for your compliments. I'm glad you are enjoying my story. -blushes- Your review was simply amazing and really made me happy as well as helped me to judge if any of the characters were off (something I definitely don't want to happen). Thank you again for all of the compliments.  
**Pierre Gringoire**: You're just going to have to keep reading to find out what happens, but thank you for correcting my mistake as well as your view. Input and opinions are always welcomed.

Anyways, thank you to my reviewers and, again, sorry for the very long wait between chapters. It was unavoidable, but I will hopefully make it up to all of you over my winter break. Anyways, enjoy!

P.S. Everyone should go read Sweet Valentine's story "Parmi Les Gitans." It puts this fan fiction to shame. It is really wonderfully written, different, and very interesting. I would put a link, but it's not working for some reason. ( Really sorry, but it's easy enough to find in a search.

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It became almost a daily routine of the time Clopin and Nadja spent together. He was thankful for her absolute honesty and general cheerfulness while she was grateful to have made a friend in a strange new city who did not ask too many questions about her past. While not every moment was spent together because life would be very dull and boring, the pair saw each other often enough that some of the gadje women who came to see Clopin's performances knew they had better chances gaining his attention when the gypsy girl was not around. 

Every so often, Clopin would bring little Esmeralda with him when he visited the artist and it was a guarantee that all of Nadja's attention would be focused on the small girl. Esmeralda looked up to Nadja as if she was an older sister and Nadja welcomed any chance for the child's amazement at life as well as her general sense of awe towards the other woman.

And so the days passed, filled with laughter, friendship, and several runs from the guards which is unavoidable when being a gypsy in Paris, France. Granted, Clopin with his headstrongness and Nadja with her pride would be at ends with each other, but these small disagreements were quickly over and laughed about.

It was two and a half months later, in the month of July, and Nadja decided to surprise Clopin with a picnic by the Seine River, a way to thank him for all the kindness he had bestowed upon her. It was an ordinary day in Paris for the month of July. Very few Parisians graced the cobblestone streets of the city as the temperatures had reached nearly unbearable highs. Still, children could be seen begging their mothers to let them stop and see the puppet show as the women attempted to complete their errands as quickly as possible. However, they welcomed the chance to leave their children in a fairly well supervised area with the only gypsy man they trusted in the city, knowing he would entertain them for quite some time, leaving them to complete their chores. On this particular day, Nadja had ventured from her cart to visit Clopin, having sold nothing in the summer heat, the lovers too busy lounging in the shades of the trees and café umbrellas to look at her lovely works of art.

Nadja entered the plaza where Clopin's cart was always located and a smile crossed her lips as her eyes quickly found the overly flamboyant performer doing some acrobatic tricks in front of his cart, the bells on his cowl jingling with every fluid movement, the colors of his tunic and leggings combining into one blur. Deciding to stay back and let him perform, not wanting to interrupt, Nadja lingered near the back of the crowd, saying hello to the rather large fellow who she had become acquaintances with at Clopin's show, always sure though to keep her distance knowing that her skin color could easily get the man in trouble.

At the end of his performance, which Clopin ended with a magnificent song and quite a few tricky stunts, the audience applauded politely and either left the area to go about their business or approached the young man to pay him for his entertainment, the coins quickly collecting in the small tin can on the edge of the cart's windowsill. Once the majority of the crowd dispersed, the only ones left in front of the violently colored cart were Nadja, Clopin, and a very young Parisian woman whose attention was focused solely on Clopin. Not wanting to interrupt what appeared to be a very personal discussion, Nadja slipped into the shadows of a shop and waited, happy that Clopin or the woman had not seen her.

"Mademoiselle Baptista! What a pleasure to see you." Clopin leaned down and gently kissed the back of the girl's hand, a blush creeping up on her face while Nadja's own flushed with what could only be jealousy.

"And you, Clopin." The young girl's azure eyes lowering and gazing up and down Clopin's body, noting how his chest heaved slightly from his performance and the sweat that was forming on his brow, making him all the more attractive.

"Excuse me for just a moment." Clopin again leaned over, this time placing a quick kiss on the girl's cheek before dashing into his cart, returning a few moments later with a clean tunic on, a towel in one hand wiping his face. "I apologize. The heat is outrageous today, but the children were so excited to see me flipping about before the puppet show that I just had to perform."

"Always one to please the children, monsieur, aren't you?"

"Indeed. And hopefully others as well."

Gemile raised a dainty hand to her painted lips and giggled, her eyes lowering in a seductive manner. "It has been a long time since I have last spoken to you, Clopin. Over two months. Don't tell me you have found another woman to preoccupy your time."

"Non!" Clopin looked offended at the mere suggestion. "None could compare to your beauty and grace, ma dame juste. I have simply had other matters to attend to. I didn't stay away by choice. Could you forgive a stupid, old man?"

Gemile giggled again. "Stupid, perhaps. Old man, never."

"Ah, but you insult me and I have not yet been forgiven."

Clopin leaned onto his cart, an elbow propping him up against the side, showing off his well-sculpted body in the afternoon sun. He knew exactly how to play with Gemile's mind and if he played his cards right, perhaps today would end in a much pleasanter atmosphere, preferably in Gemile's bed in a cool house. Gemile noted Clopin's posture and knew all too well Clopin's game, having heard from several of the older women of his dastardly deeds, but still finding the gypsy man irresistible.

"Perhaps, if you are not too busy, monsieur could escort me home and we can discuss an appropriate manner for this forgiveness to be given?"

Nadja could not stand to see the two flirt anymore. The wicker basket containing the lunch she had prepared for Clopin and herself was clutched angrily in one hand, the other pressed flat against the side of the building. Taking several deep breaths, Nadja walked gracefully out of the side alley, swinging her hips just the tiniest of bits, a cheerful smile gracing her features that were so dark only moments before.

Clopin looked up from Gemile and raised a hand to wave at Nadja, having seen her come from the side of the shop. Nadja approached the pair, not even bothering to offer her hand in friendship, knowing that such a gesture would be lost on the woman before her whose face was covered with a very ill-hidden look of disgust as her eyes intensely scrutinized the slightly older girl in front of her. The gypsy girl just kept a pleasant look on her face as if her raggedy clothing was much more expensive than the perfectly dressed young lady before her. Pretending not to notice, Nadja simply folded her hands on the handle of her basket. Clopin seemed to notice the tension forming between the two young ladies and quickly stepped in.

"Gemile, I don't believe you have met Nadja Sherred yet. She is new here. Her cart is at the Pont des Artes; she sells paintings and such." Clopin raised a hand to present Nadja who merely continued to smile. "And Nadja, this is Mademoiselle Gemile Baptista. Her father runs the small bank a few blocks over. He's quite influential in the city."

Gemile's smile turned particularly superior, knowing that her class was well above the dark-skinned girl before her. Tossing a perfectly curled piece of amber hair over her shoulder, Gemile glowed in the afternoon sun, her cheeks slightly flushed from the heat as well as Clopin's recent flattery. Nadja had to admit she was extraordinarily beautiful and could understand Clopin's fawning over the young girl. "It's a pleasure to finally meet the woman Clopin has talked so much about. I shall have to stop by the bridge at some point to see your art work."

"Funny. Clopin has never mentioned you." Nadja turned to look at Clopin, whose mouth dropped before he could even comprehend what exactly had happened. The air was suddenly like ice despite the sun pounding on the three and the lack of any breeze. Gemile looked offended, her hand coming up to her delicate mouth once again, this time in shock. "You are quite beautiful, though. It is no wonder he would be attracted to such a lovely gadje woman. Probably hasn't told anyone about you so he can keep you all to himself. Isn't that right, Clopin?"

"Indeed!" Gemile's face clearly shown that she was not pleased, a lace fan having replaced her hand that was now fluttering nervously in front of her face. Clopin quickly responded, not wanting to ruin his chances with the pretty gadje girl and noting he would certainly have a talk with Nadja when this was done. "I wouldn't want any other men, gypsy or gadje, to take notice of you. They would surely steal you away from me and we couldn't have that, ma dame juste. I'd be heartbroken."

"Isn't he just the charmer?" Nadja smiled pleasantly at Gemile as if she did not notice the intense rays of dislike that were coming off the other girl as Gemile lowered her fan and shook out her shoulders, asserting her class.

"It appears that you are busy today, Clopin." Gemile threw one last look of disgust at Nadja before flicking open a parasol that had been dangling from her wrist, using it to keep the sun from her eyes. "Perhaps I shall ask monsieur Léon to escort me home."

"If that is what you wish, mademoiselle." Clopin bowed, trying to keep a smile on his face while he was steaming on the inside. It certainly looked like he would spending the day in the heat that afternoon, not entangled in Mademoiselle Baptista's sheets.

"Oui. It is. Good day."

Turning sharply, Gemile walked off down the cobblestone street, her hips swinging seductively behind her, knowing that Clopin's gaze would follow her until she left the square. Without even a look back, Mademoiselle Baptista was gone and Clopin had thrown himself against his cart, his shoulders shrugged and an air of defeat around him. He had completely forgotten about Nadja with Gemile leaving so abruptly and nearly took a swing at the poor girl when she finally spoke up.

"She seems to be very pleasant. I would love to get to know her better."

Clopin glared at Nadja, who did nothing more than smile, knowing that he might be angry at her for a while, but would eventually cool off and be back to his pleasant self. "Hmph. You're still a nasty little liar and now you have ruined my chances of spending the afternoon with Gemile."

"But wouldn't you prefer my company instead? I won't ruin your clothing or pull at your hand for attention or beg you to stay for just one more moment before my parents arrive home." Nadja smirked scandalously at the appalled look at Clopin's face. Shaking her hair out and laughing, Nadja continued. "Besides, I simply have too much food in this basket for one person. I need someone else to share it with."

"You, mademoiselle, are above and beyond anyone I have ever met. I swear, sometimes, I don't know if you are a scoundrel or a lady."

Nadja laughed, a hand grasping her stomach at Clopin's comment. "I will take that as a compliment, señor."

"You would, mademoiselle."

"You will be joining me for lunch then? I have packed your favorite sandwiches and a nice, though illegal, bottle of wine compliments of Judge Claude Frollo."

Clopin quirked an eyebrow at the woman before him, a habit he had picked up from her and one he was still trying to break. "Do I even want to ask how you got your hands on that?"

"That is a secret, señor, that I shall never tell."

With a devilish grin, Nadja began to make her way towards the riverside, only turning once to look back if Clopin was following her. He was, of course, having nothing better to do with his afternoon and knowing that his time spent with Nadja was always enjoyable. Besides, she had wine straight from the cellars of Judge Claude Frollo and he wanted to drink the whole bottle. Jogging slightly to catch up with her, Clopin took the basket from her hands, earning him a pleasant smile.

"What the gentleman!"

"Only at the moment, mademoiselle."

"I would assume nothing else."

Clopin playfully shoved Nadja with his elbow, causing her to trip over a loose cobblestone. He barely felt the sharp sting of her slap on his arm in retaliation, amusement overtaking him at the sight of the young woman flailing to catch her balance before hitting the ground. Nadja stuck her tongue out, crossing her arms and turning away from Clopin.

"You buffoon! Now she hates us!"

Puppet had made his appearance, the first time in a while. The small toy had not been needed to keep conversations up between the pair, having grown comfortable in each other presence. But every now and then, he appeared, particularly when Clopin fouled up.

"I could never hate you Puppet."

Leaning down, Nadja placed a kiss on his cheek and stuck her tongue out at Clopin, who was staring in disbelief at the puppet in his hand.

"Why is it that this… this… puppet, receives more affection than I do?" Puppet was now dancing around, waving his hands and exclaiming his joy at receiving a kiss from Nadja. A sharp rap to his head with the little wooden stick stopped his antics.

"Because he is polite and a gentleman." Nadja linked her arms with Clopin, her lips forming a playful pout, batting her eyelashes as she had seen Gemile do. "Which we all know is not what you are, Clopin."

"You flatter me."

"I should be careful." Nadja released her grasp on Clopin's arm, a finger coming up to rap on Clopin's head lightly. "Don't want that enlarged head of yours to inflate anymore and explode."

Clopin flicked her hand away as if she was an annoying gnat, glaring at the girl who was now skipping pleasantly before him, hoping to whatever gods there were that she would not trip walking backwards. "Very funny, mademoiselle."

Nadja turned around, her hands clasped behind her back, as she returned to walking next to Clopin. "Perhaps I can replace you as the town fool."

"I am no town fool!" Clopin had now stopped in the middle of the street, the basket shaking in his fist. "I am a comedian. Merci beaucoup!"

Without another word, Clopin turned around, basket still in hand, about ready to walk back to his cart and enjoy whatever the contents were of Nadja's lunch without her. A gentle hand on his elbow made him stopped and he turned around to face the young girl who had an apologetic look on her face, half of it in obscured by her bangs that had fallen out of her headscarf.

"I'm sorry, Clopin. I did not mean to offend. It was a joke. Perhaps I went too far." Nadja chewed thoughtfully on her lip, tugging gently at a strand of hair with a finger.

"Perhaps, mademoiselle?" Clopin placed a hand on his hip, his right foot tapping impatiently on the cobblestone.

"Very well, I did go too far." Nadja began to pout again, entangling her fingers in his tunic, forcing his attention back to her pleading, pouty eyes. "Please forgive me."

Throwing his hands up in the air in defeat, Clopin placed an arm around Nadja's shoulders, pulling her in close. "I suppose I don't have any other choice, now do I?"

"No." Nadja giggled and wriggled free of his hold, reminding him that no matter how close they ever got, physical contact was still something Nadja shied away from. "No choice but to spend the day with me."

"If I must." Clopin rolled his eyes which did nothing but cause Nadja to stick her tongue out at the storyteller. Suddenly, noticing that they were no longer near the cathedral, Clopin tugged on Nadja's hand, causing her to stop, a single dark eyebrow quirked at the abruptness. "Where exactly are we going?"

"Somewhere," Nadja replied, starting to walk away but was stopped by Clopin's tight grip on her hand.

"That's not an answer." Nadja tugged back on Clopin's hand, not getting him to move an inch.

"It's nowhere bad." Clopin just pulled another a skeptic look, not believing that she would not lead the two of them into trouble, a very bad habit of Nadja's. "Just follow me. Honestly, it'll be fine."

Clopin finally agreed to move again, not releasing her hand from his grasp and for once she did not try to wiggle free. He did not know if it was because she enjoyed the contact or if she had forgotten about it in trying to convince him to follow her. The pair silently made their way down the cobblestone path and, for once, they were able to enjoy walking in the middle of the day as there were so few Parisians out in the summer heat. After a few more minutes, they reached the spot that Nadja had led them to – a shaded area near the Pont Marie. Nadja stopped underneath an almond tree, spreading her arms out for Clopin to take in the view.

"What do you think?"

Clopin stopped and stared at the scene before him. Underneath the tree was a fair amount of shade which let it feel as if the temperature had dropped a few degrees. A light breeze had picked up and was blowing through the pink blossoms of the tree branches, a few falling off and drifting in the wind before landing in the Seine River below them. The water rippled gently, coming up at times to lap at the shore before continuing its winding path through the city. The best part, however, was that they were well hidden from the city streets above and would not be disturbed by the common Parisian or a guard. Clopin had to hand it to Nadja for finding this place as he had never stumbled upon it in his numerous adventures throughout the city.

"I think it's beautiful."

Nadja blushed and gently took the lunch basket from Clopin's hands before she sat on the ground beneath the almond tree, Clopin joining her a few moments later. Taking out a bottle of red wine and small chunk of cheese, Nadja then passed a ham and Swiss cheese sandwich, complete with a tiny swipe of butter, to Clopin, smiling pleasantly. However, an interesting look was on his face, one of confusion and bewilderment. Nadja nearly dropped his sandwich in the dirt, concerned that she had done something wrong. Clopin caught it deftly seconds before it hit the ground and finally returned her smile, answering her unasked question.

"You didn't have to do this all for me."

Nadja blushed, Clopin noted that this was the first time color had crept to her cheeks in a long time and that he had sorely missed the look on the young girl's face, and lowered her gaze. "I wanted to do it as a thank you. For being so kind to me. I…" Nadja looked up for a brief second before her gaze returned to her hands, swallowing hard. "I do not make friends often. I move too much. I don't let people get too close to me. I am happy I got to know you and I wanted to show you that."

Clopin, for once in his life, had nothing to say. He was truly touched by Nadja's gesture and did not want to ruin it by saying something stupid. Not knowing what else to do, he took a huge bite out of his sandwich, almost successfully choking himself in trying to swallow a large chunk. This caused Nadja to laugh and the air that seconds ago had been silently awkward returned to its normal cheerful mood. Nadja nibbled a bit at the end of her own sandwich, watching Clopin from the corner of her eye.

"Do you like it here in Paris?"

It had been several minutes and the pair had almost finished their sandwiches and were picking at the chunk of cheese, sipping wine straight from the bottle, Clopin having already made a toast to the minister for his gift. Nadja looked up at Clopin, pausing to think about her response. "Yes. It is very different from other places I've been to and much more… pleasant… than I remember it being."

"Are you going to stay much longer?" The question was innocent enough, but it caused Nadja to pause, lowering the bottle from her lips.

"I do not know. I have never stayed in a place for so long."

Clopin also paused, watching the expressions play across Nadja's features as her eyebrows came together and her lips squished to the side in her normal thoughtful gaze. The breeze had picked up again and her long black tresses were flowing in the wind around her and for once, Clopin saw her as a beautiful, attractive woman rather than a fellow friend and jokester who happened to be of the opposite sex.

"If you stay for the winter, you should come to the Court."

The moment was lost and Nadja had whipped her hair back into her headscarf, pulling it into a tight knot at the base of her neck and her face was clear and strong once again. "No. I will be gone before that."

"But, if you're not?"

Nadja turned and faced Clopin trying to read him, but his emotions were hidden away from her. This, if anything, frustrated Nadja more than his questions. She prided herself on being able to read every person she ever met yet he remained elusive to her at the moment.

"I doubt I would go to the Court if I remained in Paris for the winter."

"Why?"

"Why the many questions all of a sudden?"

Clopin sighed and leaned back onto his elbows, bringing the bottle of wine to his lips and taking a deep swig before replacing it next to him. "We have known each other for several months now, but I still feel like I barely know anything about you. We are friends, non?" Clopin looked up at Nadja who was leaning against the trunk of the tree.

"Yes, we are friends." Nadja began to pull at her fingers, the digits not stopping for a moment as she then began to twist part of her skirt. Clopin allowed her a moment, not wanting to push her. "But like I said, I am not used to getting close to people. I don't think I would do well in a place all season with so many different people."

Clopin nodded, stretching a hand out to grasp hers, squeezing it once gently before releasing it. He knew the subject matter was closed for the moment and did not want to ruin a pleasant day. The two sat in companionable silence, watching the waves in the Seine River as they lapped against one another. A few moments later, Nadja was the one to speak.

"May I ask about your family?"

Clopin looked up, tipping his purple hat up higher on his forehead, it having recently dipped lower to shade his eyes. He blinked a few times, a hand coming up to massage his chin and goatee. "Oui. I don't see why not."

"What is it like?" Clopin opened his mouth and then closed it again, confused at the question. Nadja chewed her lip, trying to pose the question in better words. "What is it like to have a family?"

"Do you not have a family of your own?"

Nadja shook her head, her bangs obscuring her vision and her now glistening eyes. Wiping her face quickly, Nadja took a deep breath and threw back her head, clearing the hair from her eyes. "No. They died when I was very young. Typhus. When I was nine. I have been alone since then."

"Je suis désolé."

"No. Please. Don't apologize. Everyone does. I just wonder sometimes. You still have your parents, sí?"

"Oui. Both of them. As well as several siblings."

"Tell me about them."

Nadja flopped stomach-down on the grass next to Clopin, one hand propping up her head as the other began to play with the flowers at the base of the tree. Clopin smiled and leaned back into the tree, amused at the turn of conversation.

"Very well. My maman, Papusza, married my father, Bexhet, when she was very young. She is still very young, maybe thirty, but no, not really, younger than that. She has this long gorgeous mane of hair that just goes everywhere and she always has this enormous headscarf in it to keep it from her eyes when she cooks. My mother makes the best food in all of Paris, I swear it. It's the only thing that keeps my father calm. He is always moving about and shouting and trying to fix things."

"Your father sounds a bit like you? All energy."

Clopin laughed. "Indeed. You may say that. He's fairly strict, but my father has a mean streak of humor in him. If you think I say outrageous things, you should hear my father." Nadja giggled and then nodded for Clopin to continue. "I have four siblings. My brother, Rajko, is only a few years younger than me, but you would never know we are even related."

"Why's that?"

"Let's just say that while I am loud and outrageous, my brother is all calm and quietness. You sometimes forget he is in the room because he is so silent. He wants to learn to read and write, but that's nearly impossible with our circumstances. If you hear him speak, though; his words are beautiful and he's often an inspiration for my own stories."

"The Great Clopin needs inspiration?" Nadja was teasing him yet again, her tongue sticking out with a twinkle in her eye.

"Sometimes, yes." Clopin was not ashamed to admit that his brother had more than once came up with an ending to a story that had him stuck or that, no matter their many differences, that he loved his younger brother very much. "Anyways, the two siblings below him are binaks, but they are much younger, only six years each. They are Tshaya – a stunning beauty and a heartbreaker if I've ever met one, even at such a young age – and Tshurka – who I am proud to say looks up to me like he should. The pair are the biggest set of troublemakers ever. They put me to shame sometimes."

"And the youngest?"

"A baby girl, only two. Mala. She's my favorite. She lets me pick her up and throw her in the air. She even lets me put her on my knee and sing her stories of faraway lands. The others all claim that they are too old for such nonsense, but not Mala. She'd sit there for hours and let me sing to her."

Clopin trailed off and watched the breeze play on the grass and water, his attention obviously on his baby sister.

"Your family sounds so nice." Nadja also looked at the water before closing her eyes and taking in a deep breath of the summer air.

"You could meet them."

"Perhaps one day."

* * *

**Author's Note**: So, I did somewhat okay. I got this chapter out on Christmas, not by, but oh well. I think that is pretty good considering I've been in a drug-induced coma for the last few days due to my wisdom teeth being pulled. Anyways, these chapters are becoming longer and longer. I apologize. I honestly don't mean for them to be this long. It just kinda happens. Part of this chapter wasn't even planned and just sort of came out. Consider it a holiday present from me to you. Anyways, I hope you liked it. The story will definitely start to pick with the next few chapters, I promise. D

Mademoiselle (French): title of a young, unmarried woman  
Monsieur (French): respectful title for a man  
Non (French): no  
Ma dame juste (French): my fair lady  
Pont des Artes (French): Bridge of the Arts  
Gadje (Romani): non-Romani  
Oui (French): yes  
Señor (Spanish): respectful title for a man  
Merci beaucoup (French): Thank you very much  
Pont Marie (French): Marie's Bridge  
Je suis désolé (French): I'm sorry  
Sí (Spanish): Yes  
Maman (French): mom  
Binaks (Romani): twins


	10. Les réunions secrètes dans les endroits

**Chapter ****Ten  
**

**Les Réunions Secrètes dans les Endroits Cachés**

**(Secret Meetings in Hidden Places)**

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**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the characters/items/other stuff from Hunchback of Notre Dame. They belong to Victor Hugo (the original mastermind whom I strongly recommend reading as the original is absolutely brilliant and puts Disney to shame) and Disney (as most of the characterization is based on this version). I only use them for my own pleasure in writing, but I don't make a dime out of it, so please don't sue. All original characters are my own creation.

* * *

Claude Frollo paced impatiently in his office, sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows and illuminating the harsh lines of his face, an aggravated grimace on his features. It had been two months since he had last heard from the bounty hunters, no progress having been reported to him. The gypsy woman's cart remained open at the Pont des Artes and he occasionally spotted the vibrant red hair of the Irish man. However, neither of them approached him to inform him of their plans, neither of them seemed to care that while they pranced around Paris, he was pulling his hair out in displeasure at the gypsies that continued to flood his streets. Just as he had poured himself a glass of wine, a hand coming up to massage one of his throbbing temples, a knock sounded at the door. Contemplating for a moment, Claude called for his guest to enter.

Pushing the door ajar and peering in, Benoît Blanc cautiously entered Claude's office, sensing the tense and frustrated air radiating from the minister. Claude stood up, offering a seat to Benoît before returning to his own, downing the glass of wine before pouring another for himself and a first to Benoît. After a short toast, Claude got straight to business.

"Monsieur Blanc, have you any news for me?" Claude looked over the top of his wine goblet, the glint in his eye suggesting that the lack of information would not bode well for the minister's most trusted advisor. Seeing this, Benoît swallowed before he spoke.

"Yes, Minister." Benoît shifted in his hard leather seat before continuing, noting that Claude's impatience grew with each passing moment. "I have word on the two bounty hunters."

Benoît paused, seeing if this pleased the minister or not. Claude waved a hand for the man to proceed, no visible reaction at the mention of the hired assassins.

"As you know, I have had the two tracked since you first employed them. It appears that the two are working separately as the Irish man randomly and infrequently visits the gypsy girl at her cart. However, she has become quite friendly with the jester."

Claude interrupted, leaning forward, raising hand to signal that he wanted Benoît to pause. "How friendly with him has she become?"

Benoît smirked, a scandalous glint in his eyes. "Friendly enough that they are seen often together, spending hours in each others' presence. Friendly enough that she makes him lunch for their picnics where they playfully flirt. Friendly enough, or so the whisperings on the streets seem to believe, to take him to her bed."

"Hm…" Claude leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in front of him and closing his eyes to think for a moment. Opening his eyes, Claude returned his attention to the man before him. "Do you know if she has been to the gypsy haven?"

"Not as far as my men know, Minister; however, they cannot tail the girl for all hours of the day. She is quite clever and, if I may so, intelligent. I believe she has an inkling that we might be following her as she has sometimes escapes my men, slipping from their sight for hours at a time."

"Indeed?" The minister paused, processing this information. Benoît again began to squirm in his seat, the eerie silence that filled the office uncomfortable. He was usually not so nervous near the minister, but his presence today was something so different, so frightening, that it caused the confident man to pause in his speech. Noting the other man's nervousness, Claude smiled and tipped his wine goblet towards Benoît, showing his pleasure. "That is interesting news."

"Yes, I thought so as well Minister." Benoît smiled for the first time since he had entered Frollo's office, pleased that his master was content with his report. Relaxing into his seat a bit more, Benoît took a deep sip from his own glass, finally able to enjoy the superb wine. The two men sat in companionable silence, both lost in their thoughts before Benoît excused himself.

"Before you leave," Benoît paused at the open doorway, turning back to face the Minister. "Please inform the Captain of the Guards that I would like to see him."

"Oui, of course, Minister."

Benoît bowed out of the office, quietly closing the door behind him. Judge Frollo was not alone for very long before there was another knock on his door.

"Enter," called the judge from his seat, his back towards the door as he gazed out the stained glass window now in front of him.

Phoebus entered the office quickly, making sure to shut the door as quietly and as quickly as possible. As soon as he had crossed the length of the room and was a few yards away from Frollo's desk, Phoebus positioned himself at attention and waited for the minister to acknowledge him.

Claude let the young man sweat a bit as he planned his next move. What he was about to ask the Captain to do may backfire drastically on him, but he wanted to see more action being pursued when it came to the gypsy population. While he understood that the bounty hunters claimed their plan might take up to a year, he was looking for a quicker strategy. Perhaps, he thought, they just needed a little push to get things moving.

"Captain." Phoebus stood up, if it was possible, even taller and straighter as the minister got up and slowly came around his desk, pausing directly in front of the soldier. "I have need of your services."

Phoebus looked at the Minister before returning his gaze back to the window in front of him, a silent pause between the two gentlemen.

"I need you to arrest the gypsy girl who owns the cart at the Pont des Artes for robbery and treason."

Again the Captain of the Guards paused before his eyes glazed over in confusion.

"But sir," Phoebus began. "Is that not the cart of the bounty hunter you hired?"

"Indeed it is."

The Captain was confused by the request of his master, but knew better than to ask questions. Better and higher-up men had been tortured or worse for such questions and Phoebus knew that Frollo held no extraordinarily fond feelings for him.

"I will send a lieutenant over immediately to bring her in to custody, sir."

"No, I want you to do it. Personally."

At this, Phoebus finally began to question the Minister.

"But sir, it would be unusual for me to issue directly an arrest for a common gypsy. It would appear out of the ordinary for me to do so."

Judge Frollo held up a hand to stop the stream of words coming from the Captain's mouth. "I need you to issue the arrest so I can ensure it is done as well as sending a message to her and her partner. I do not believe you will actually be able to bring the woman in, but it shall provide them with the message that I am not pleased."

Phoebus shut his mouth and did not say another word, bowing himself out of the Minister's office. He had worked for the man long enough to know that arguing was futile and a path that certainly led to a whipping.

As Claude was meeting with Benoît and Phoebus, the two assassins that were such an important topic to the Minister were also meeting. Patrick had stepped out that afternoon, determined to speak to his partner, having only had a few brief conversations via hand and body signals they had been using. Dressed as a nobleman, feathered hat covering his flaming red hair to deter some of the stares, Patrick approached Jeta's cart.

"How much for this piece, gypsy?" sneered Patrick towards his partner, playing his role extraordinarily well.

Doing her best to not return the sneer, Jeta made her way over to the nook in her cart caused by the opened doors, a fairly inconspicuous spot that offered them some privacy.

"It's twenty-five francs, señor."

Patrick scoffed. "A steep price for a child's piece of artwork."

The few people who were around the cart, picking through the artwork, lowered their heads and shuffled away. None of them wanted to be in a fight that seemed about to break out nor did they want to be involved if the guards did happen upon the sight before them. Jeta crossed her arms, eyes thin slits, as Patrick clutched the artwork in his fist, looking as if he was about to smash the painting to pieces. The people who did pause only did so to gasp and scurry away.

In a whisper, inaudible to anyone but Jeta, Patrick began to whisper quickly. "Any word on your end?"

"He trusts me almost completely," Jeta whispered back, though her posture still seemed as if she was about to strike the man in front of her, anger barely contained. "He has already offered to take me to the Cour des Miracles, but not until the winter, when it gets colder." Jeta then raised her voice for everyone to hear. "And what would you pay for it, sir?"

"I wouldn't buy this with the muck on the bottom of my boot!" Patrick slammed the painting down on the edge of the cart, gesturing angrily at the cart before whispering back to Jeta. "Excellent. Things seem to be moving along on my end. I have already trailed a few of the gypsies, the younger ones who aren't as cautious as their elders."

"If you dislike it sir, you can just walk away! Shall I give you a suggestion for a place more suitable?" yelled back Jeta, glaring at Patrick, protectively picking up the painting and pulling it closer to her body.

"I do not need your suggestions, you gypsy scum!" Patrick spit at Jeta's feet and made to turn away, whispering quickly to Jeta before leaving. "The Pont Au Double as well as the eastern cemetery."

"By all means, sir, why not move along and leave me to sell my wares," Jeta replied in a sickly sweet way, disgust apparent in her voice, gesturing with a hand to the open sidewalk. "Any other news I should know about?"

"Be careful of how you speak to me, gypsy." Patrick leaned in closely, a warning written on his face. "They know of your presence. Watch yourself, as some of the gypsies are not so fond of the new girl who is stealing away the attention of their beloved prince."

Jeta nodded her head sharply, biting her tongue and noting Patrick's words. The older man stormed off, knocking aside the few spectators who were brave enough to stay still long enough to watch the exchange, emphasizing the anger he felt towards the woman. To those who could not hear the whispered conversation, it seemed as if there had just been a brief, heated conversation between a nobleman and a gypsy seller, but, for the two assassins, it was an exchange of important information that they would spend the next days picking over.

Sighing, Jeta turned to face her cart, her hair falling to obscure her face, the hand holding the painting shaking. Things were about to get serious; she could feel it in her bones. She would have to be careful with her next steps to luring the gypsy prince into totally trusting her. Smiling and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, Jeta went about her business, Patrick's words still ringing in her ears.

* * *

**Author's Note**: A short chapter, but a necessary one. It's a transition into the next few chapters which will filled with much more action and excitement.

Monsieur (French): respectful title for a man  
Oui (French): yes  
Señor (Spanish): respectful title for a man


End file.
